


baby wolf & golden songbird

by steelandtemper



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hollywood, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Boss/Employee Relationship, Daddy Kink, Dark-ish, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Manipulation, Mentor/Protégé, Minor Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Minor Original Character(s), Older Man/Younger Woman, Other, POV Alternating, POV First Person, POV Petyr Baelish, Past Joffrey Baratheon/Sansa Stark, Power Exchange, Recreational Drug Use, Sibling Bonding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2020-05-02 00:01:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 85,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19187872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steelandtemper/pseuds/steelandtemper
Summary: Modern Hollywood/Los Angeles (AU)Petyr and Sansa work together at Lannisport Pictures, always keeping a careful distance from one another. Once Sansa steps across the threshold of the Mockingbird, however, all bets are off and she's swept head first into Petyr's dark orbit. They click together instantly, but how much is Petyr willing to disclose about his true plans despite their connection? In the plot to fell the Lannisters, how willing is Petyr to involve Sansa now that she is his-- with or without her knowledge? How far will he go? How far will she follow?Alternating first person POV from Petyr to Sansa.





	1. just a glimpse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Petyr.” Mr. Baelish says, “please call me Petyr.”
> 
> Twenty minutes ago I would’ve objected. Now I might do anything he asked of me.
> 
> “Alright,” I say quietly, “Petyr.”

1  
Sansa  


I stand outside Mr. Baelish’s office with my coffee tray in hand— two large cups of black for him, and a pot of green tea for Mr. Lannister. I hold it closely so the rich aromas can waft by my face as I wait.

I strain to listen for the voices inside the office to gauge how close they are to wrapping up. There’s no rule saying I couldn’t walk into the office right now if I wanted to, but I prefer to make my timing unobtrusive when I can.

I hear some hearty laughter from behind the heavy door, recognize the cue, step back, and smile courteously at the three Sony executives as they file out of Mr. Baelish’s office, joking and murmuring amongst themselves. 

I really don’t know how he does it. An hour ago those men looked practically murderous, and with good reason— a project under Mr. Baelish’s oversight is horribly behind-schedule and over-budget, but he no doubt found a way to spin it as a positive. 

_‘Oh, don’t worry boys,’_ I muse mockingly, _‘your multi-million dollar film absolutely needs these reshoots. It’s only going to add value! You can trust me, boys. There’s nothing I can’t tackle. And I hear you. I’m listening. Your concerns are valid. You’re making great points, sir. You’re absolutely right, sir, and together we will prevail. I know how to handle this. You don’t need to worry about a thing! I have everything under control. Just look at my smile, doesn’t it make you want to put your life in my hands? Don’t you want to just fall down at my feet?’_

I slip through the door before it can shut all the way and pace across the room to set the tray down on the low glass table next to the giant window-wall. A short, low sofa and two low arm chairs sit on either side of the table; this is where Mr. Baelish and Mr. Lannister have their talks. When I straighten up and turn, I notice Mr. Baelish watching me, looking zapped and rather miserable.

“Thank you, Sansa.” His cheek is smushed by the palm he's leaning his face against.

Normally I’d give a brisk ‘you’re welcome’ and move along, but the devastating exhaustion clear on his face gives me pause.

“Are—” _'Are you okay?' No, don't say that._ “Is there anything I can get you?” Then I quickly add, “Mr. Baelish?”

He smiles, and it’s distorted by his flattened cheek, which spreads a shy grin across my face in return. It gives him a softer charm than his usual kind; it makes him seem almost boyish. It throws me off for a moment— but I like it. It’s not a performance. 

He straightens up, considering me. “No, no, I don’t think so. Thank you.”

I incline my head to leave, but he continues. “But hey— do you know anything about this project? Half-Dome? Have you done any work on it here?”

“Yes, a bit,” I say, technically telling the truth. I mean, I’m a paid intern so how much can I know, really? I filed some financial paperwork for the project when I was filling in for Harry a couple weeks ago (some _real_ dry stuff,) but I haven’t actually been assigned to anything that high caliber yet, and I don’t exactly feel like bringing that up now. That’s especially because I do actually have a pretty solid understanding of the project just from being an aggressively eager busy body around the office. Well, not Mr. Baelish’s office.

I walk closer to his desk because it seems more appropriate to be there than at the opposite end of the room for this. He looks at me in a casual way, but I start to feel nervous all the same. Being looked at by him this directly and fully and singularly is not a common occurrence and I feel a little bit like an ant under a magnifying glass. Scrutinized. Vulnerable. Hot in the face. 

Petyr is cool and calm, apparently just thinking in my general direction. I don’t normally stand this close to him for extended periods of time, or if I am, I’m taking notes and don’t really ever look up. So now, standing here, I just manage to breathe and look right back at him, trying not to betray my nerves. 

There’s no denying that the man is handsome. His power is intimidating, yes, but I’ve dealt with many powerful people before in my life. But with Mr. Baelish, it’s more than that. I’ve always been fascinated by those grey streaks at his temples— they suit him so well, so effortlessly. His eyes, when they look at you, are intense and knowing. He’s clean cut. Collected. Relaxed, yet always controlled. Standing in front of him now I feel a wave of fresh nerves. A churning. 

Honestly, I just try not to think about his attractiveness if I can help it because I already feel weird enough about his rank/status at our work and the fact that I have to keep it together since I’m around him all the time. And I mean outside of work, too— he’s a family friend of my aunt’s (and I guess my mom’s, too,) and I end up seeing him at a lot of family-related social functions. I don’t actually really know him all that well, though. My mom says that she didn’t contact Petyr at all when I applied for my job here, but I still get a weird feeling that my connection to him might’ve been what got me the job… which I really hate to think. 

In my mind, keeping things professional as possible with Mr. Baelish will keep everyone else in the office from potentially hating me. If they can see that I have this job because I earn it every day, then I prove to myself that I deserve it, too— properly. I don’t want to give anyone any reason to see me as anything other than competent and worthy of being in such a competitive position. 

I’m young, too, which doesn’t help the situation any. Eighteen, since last Tuesday, at least— an adult among adults. Barely. My youth makes nepotism only seem more likely from an outside perspective, I would think. None of these people care that I graduated high school two years early for this or that I know more about the inner workings of Lannisport Pictures than all of them combined. 

_Doesn’t matter,_ I tell myself. _Does. Not. Matter._

But I think Mr. Baelish must understand my approach on this, judging by how he always seems to follow my lead, never casual with me in the office the way he might be outside of it. 

Finally Mr. Baelish says, “Tell me the truth— your honest-to-God opinion. How much more is worth sinking into Half-Dome? If we try to fix it now, do you think the cost will justify itself in the end?”

I consider this. I can’t really believe he’s asking _my_ opinion on this, and it takes me a second to process that alone to actually start coming up with a response.

Except— I realize I already have one. I’ve totally already thought about this, like a lot. When you’re a glorified assistant trying to climb the ladder, you pay attention to these things as you hear them and think about them even when it’s not your job to do so. It’s a complicated predicament, the situation he’s asking me about, and I find myself pretending that I’m just now thinking about it as he watches me. 

In reality, I play pretend all the time that the fate of this project and others are all up to me while I’m making coffee and blindly filing things. I press my lips together. My honest answer is definitely not anything he wants to hear. Telling him what I truly think when it’s not very optimistic the very first time he asks my opinion on something like this…? Shit. Should I make something up? I bite my tongue, thinking through options too quickly to even consider any of them properly. Blind brain panic.

“Sansa…?” He catches my eye, looking curious.

“Yes, what?” I reply way too quickly.

“What are you thinking?” He looks amused. Great.

“Well,” I give what’s probably an unconvincing laugh, “well I mean, I’m thinking about my answer! That’s what you wanted, yes?”

He crosses his arms over his chest, narrowing his eyes.

“No, you know your answer. So tell me.” The way he says it leaves leaves no room for debate. How the hell would he be able to tell that? I scramble.

“What? No! Well, I mean— I kind of have an idea, but it’s just, well, I don’t think I’m really qualified—”

Mr. Baelish leans forward slightly, and something just… changes. I shut up. The air feels like it stops moving.

“Sansa.” His voice is quieter now but it somehow conveys more authority than any time I’ve seen him yell. It feels heavy. Something hot in my stomach plunges. “Tell me what you think.”

I don’t feel the need to look away. In fact, I can’t. It’s suddenly easy— I tell him.

“It’s not worth anything more, not in the way you’re going about it. It stopped being worth that kind of trouble a while ago. No amount of money can save it in the way you want to save it at this stage.”

Mr. Baelish doesn’t seem to be shaken or offended by this the way I was expecting. He just asks, “Why?”

“Well, the problem everyone’s trying to solve is the ending, right? The last fifteen minutes— as if they think re-writing some perfect ending will make everything fall into place. But, in my opinion, the problem isn’t in the end. The subject matter of the story itself is about something that the writers clearly had a stupidly shallow understanding of. The emotional beats are vague and lifeless because the movie is trying to be so serious when it feels like it’s not supposed to be, really. Every dramatic moment in the movie feels like it’s based on a Film 100 textbook. It keeps trying to hit beats when the story just doesn’t fit the model. It’s awkward and formulaic. Oscar-bait subject matter can’t save an amateur Hollywood hero’s-journey storyline if it’s not even that kind of movie. It’s like trying to put $500 wine into a sippy cup with some ice cubes and calling it gourmet. Sippy cups are great, and so is expensive wine! But nobody wants them together, right? You’re really just wasting the potential of the wine, is what you’re doing. Trying to change the ending to this movie is like pouring the wine into a different-colored sippy cup to improve the taste of the wine. The two aren’t really even related at this point.”

Mr. Baelish still has not reacted, but I feel his full attention. His gaze still burns through me, but not in a bad way anymore. I feel taller. Stronger.

“And what would you suggest we do, then?” His tone conveys nothing, no cue of what he’s thinking. So I keep going. I already started rolling down this hill, why stop now?

“You should keep the original ending. It’s really not that bad, and it already fits the tone and style of the rest of the thing. I would just commit to any weird spots the executives are nervous about. People like weird, and they like it when it feels intentional. Your best hope for quality now is a good editor, so don’t skimp there. Find something that really works in the editing room and go back and play that up in every way possible. You can do a lot there. Make it memorable— I’ve always thought that freaky and memorable is better than sanded-down and generic. If it’s gonna be bad at least make it noteworthy. Embrace the awkward, make it front and center. People love that. Haven’t you even seen a horrible movie that you loved because it was… fearless and self-aware?”

Mr. Baelish taps a finger against his lips, considering it all. I remember something.

“And— keep in mind that I’ve seen practically none of the footage cut together. All I’ve had to go on is the script, some dailies, some reports, that kind of thing. And also… I’m not technically on the project. At all. So, ah, I guess… take all this with a grain of salt.”

I cross my arms. I’m done now. Wow, I talked a lot.

“How long have you been working here, again, Sansa?”

“Seven months, sir.” _Sir? Sir?! Where did that come from?!_

When I bring myself to meet his eyes again he seems to be holding back a grin, maybe laughter. Great. I was trying to make a solid impression and now I’m probably Ned and Cat’s teenage kid to him again, in over her head and acting like a—

“It’s a very interesting take you’ve presented,” he says.

“Interesting?” I prod. I need to know what that means.

“It’s unique. And it makes sense, it really does. I… I need to think about that. I do. I’m going to think about that.”

“Oh,” I say. He seems to be genuine. I don’t think he’s just saying it… but he could be. 

“I mean that,” he says then, “it’s original problem solving. Very creative.”

I must have some dumb look on my face because he follows this up with even more earnest praise.

“Sansa, really, I’m impressed. Obviously it’s a little rough around the edges, but I’m very pleased with your response, really.”

Okay, okay. I hold back a shudder of pure mortification. Pleased with my response? It feels so… clinical. Like what you say when you don’t have anything actually good to say. Whatever. I try to seem genuine, too, like I believe him so I can just end this nightmare of embarrassment. 

“I’m glad I could please you, Mr. Baelish.”

Well, I guess it really can always get worse. How did that come out like that? Why did my voice suddenly go so soft? It sounded almost _erotic._

I feel a flood of heat rush to my face. I frantically try to think whether it would do more damage to acknowledge the weirdness I’ve just created or to pretend like I didn’t notice it at all. Well, I’m sure my face is red as a beet now, which is probably a dead give away, but I still choose to look back to Mr. Baelish as evenly as I can manage.

His gaze immediately pins me to the spot I stand. Everything suddenly feels very still. The space between us presses on me like some actual kind of physical matter, taut and buzzing. Waves of heat roll through me and my heart feels like it’s in my throat. 

That’s when I notice the corner of his jaw flex, as though he’s clenched it. Something in me simply loses its grip in that moment and I just… let myself look. I don’t even try to hide it.

I can sense him watching the movement of my eyes as they move from his jaw up to the white at his temples, trace down his face to the gold pin on his dark jacket, flick up to his lips, linger there for a moment, and then settle back to his eyes. It all felt rather innocent to me as I did it, though now, looking at him, it certainly doesn’t feel like it was at all. 

I know I should look away now, but I don’t. I don’t want to. Being seen by him is exhilarating and soothing all at once. Part of me wants to reach out, but I at least have control over that part right now, so I don’t.

There’s a look on his face that I genuinely can’t place. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but doesn’t. 

In that moment, I’m struck with an overwhelming want for him to touch me. Not like that, necessarily, rather… I want to know what his skin feels like. 

Whether his hands are warm or cool, damp or dry. 

Whether his palms are calloused or smooth.

How his touch feels, how roughly or gently his grip would be on me, what leaning against him would feel like. 

How his skin would taste if I licked the crook of his neck. 

How his breaths would feel underneath my head on his chest. 

How he would react if I were to sit in his lap right here and now and tried it.

The urge to find out these things stutters around inside my chest, and something warmer and more urgent than nerves or embarrassment pools inside me. The strangeness and warmth of it all has me breaking into a smile in spite of myself, a bit disbelieving of it all.

Petyr smiles, too, after watching me do it like an idiot. His smile is beautiful and real, and not just for my benefit. Somehow, looking at him, I can just tell. And suddenly I don’t feel embarrassed any more, and it feels strange that I ever did.

“Petyr.” Mr. Baelish says, “please call me Petyr.”

Twenty minutes ago I would’ve objected. Now I might do anything he asked of me.

“Alright,” I say quietly, “Petyr.” 

It reverberates between us, the words small and soft yet somehow commanding the entire room.

And before I can ruin it, I smile again, do a little bow of my head, and make for the door. I find myself standing properly upright as I walk away, now very aware that he’d be watching me go. When I swing open the door, Mr. Lannister is standing there, having just been about to open it himself. I stand aside. He seems a little startled but not for long, as he walks in past me all the same without a word. 

I leave the room, but just before the door closes all the way, I look back, and I catch just a glimpse of Petyr doing the same.


	2. an anomaly of a girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I throw my head forward and groan into my hands. What am I going to do? What has she done? Does she even know what she’s done?
> 
> Does she?

2  
Petyr

Tywin is pacing and pontificating on something happening over at Universal but I am simply not capable of listening. I really couldn’t if I tried. I take one of the coffees from the tray on the coffee table and hold it up near my face, just smelling it for a moment.

“… I know we have a better program than the ones those cocksuckers think they’re inventing. It’s ridiculous. It’s insulting. They have no idea what they’re in for. It just doesn’t work like that.”

I nod gravely. “It really doesn’t.”

I take a sip. The pulse I feel in one of my fingertips betrays my air of calm. I need to think about something else, goddamnit, but does it have to be this? Tywin Lannister is a huge investor and therefore important. He is also my superior— different department and all, but definitely a higher-up. But after Sansa, I just want to throw the old prick out the window and to _think and be alone for one second._

It’s not that I’ve never noticed Sansa before. Gods know that I have noticed her plenty. It’s just not an impeccably ideal situation, is it? I’ve technically known Sansa her entire life. I mean, even as she was growing up, I wasn’t blind— of course she’s always been beautiful. But she is Cat’s… and _Ned’s._ Ned Fucking Stark’s.

Countless times I’ve seen Sansa at gatherings and parties through the years, always as though through glass. She’d always stick shyly to her friends when she could, and to her wild little sister Arya when she couldn’t. Always so feminine and proper, resolutely acting more grown-up than her age. Long legs, long eyelashes, wide eyes, freckles. All of it combined resulted in a wobbly-legged doe effect— her smile the most sweet and trusting I’ve ever seen. I became able to pick out her laugh easily from among a crowd in any sized room by the pure, clear, uninhibited joy behind it. 

Sansa has always resembled her mother to a degree, but _Gods_ does she look even more like Cat now. They even share a few mannerisms that I’ve noticed here and there. Looking at her closely just moments ago was, at first, almost unsettling. 

Looking directly into the waters of those Tully blue eyes… there just aren’t words. I know that Sansa is not her mother. I absolutely know that. She is all her own, especially in personality. She’s just as fierce as Cat, yet it expresses itself differently, to a different rhythm. She exists on a whole other frequency. Something burns behind her eyes that is all her own, something that I need to feel, even if for no other reason than just to know what it _is._ Her appetite for knowing the world is eager and bottomless.

Sansa Stark is an anomaly of a girl. A gem. I see her beauty, I see her wit, but I also see the very core of her that hungers like a wolf.

But when she first started at Lannisport, I put a sort of a lock on the idea to begin with. 

A blanket no-go, if you will. I wouldn’t even let myself consider it. I would look, of course, but kept my respectful distance always. I try to be decent, I do. She was also seventeen at the time. Besides, I never let myself assume that she would look at me that way, whether that be because I’m twenty years her senior or because I could be considered honorary family. She’d always been so overly polite and short with me, and that helped me stay focused away from her. But today it happened naturally. I saw it. I can’t believe it, but it did. Gods. Pandora’s box has been opened.

Her high cheeks blush so easily and brightly and it’s…otherworldly. Just looking at her feels like I’m stealing something precious, like someone is going to slap my hand away at any moment. Before today, Sansa and I have never really had… whatever that was. Certainly we’ve had much longer conversations the past, but something just now was different. And it _was_ different, I know it. Mostly, in the office, I admire from afar and muse whether I should feel guilty about it, never moving beyond pleasantries. Fuck pleasantries.

Now the girl is stuck on a loop in my head. Her blush. Her shy smiles. That fiery little speech. The set of her mouth. Her bright eyes, briefly studying my face with an expression I could not name. Walking away. Catching her glimpse through the door.

“Petyr.”

“What?” He looks annoyed. It’s not ideal, but it’s fine. I can handle Tywin Lannister.

He sighs. “All this business with Half-Dome, I’m hearing it’s getting rough. How much sleep are you getting?”

“Not a lot,” I admit. Tywin appreciates a straight answer and he can smell bullshit like no other man I’ve met. It’s not an issue, though. Every lie I tell is always a variation of reality and is rooted in the truth, and therefore is never true bullshit.

A good lie is just a carefully chosen truth. I’ve got the method down. I invented the method. At this point I barely have to think about it; sometimes I surprise myself with the things I say instinctively. It’s a skill, yes, but I have to say— it’s also innate. You can learn, of course, but if you don’t have the intuition you just don’t have it. Watching others attempt to lie has become downright painful to watch, every single day. Everywhere I go I feel like I’m constantly witnessing train wrecks that only I can see, but I have to act cool about it no matter what. I have to pretend like I don’t see through people when it’s really all l do.

I see all of it. I can read a person and understand them in minutes through casual conversation. I see people right down to their uniquely rotten core. When you know what to pay attention to when people speak— and don’t speak— you can unravel anyone. Every person is their own undoing, I simply take notes.

When you know what a person wants, you hold the power. Power comes from knowledge, and knowledge from observation and information. Intuition, too. And I’ve had a lot of time to observe Tywin Lannister.

Tywin stands up resolutely after a brief moment of consideration. 

“Well, I need to go to Santa Monica to speak with that Bolton sleaze about— well, I just need to go deal with some things. How about we end early today— I need you sharp, Baelish. I’m concerned for you, yes, but moreover I need you sharp for this matter. I’m serious. Get some sleep.”

Tywin Lannister is the kind of man who will remind you to your face that your practical use to him is all he truly cares about. To him, the extent of my purpose is the extent of my worth. I’ve known this from the beginning. Most of the people in Tywin’s life are expendable, but I am still here. I know him, and I know how he ticks. I acknowledge the real message.

“I understand. I will.”

Tywin seems satisfied with this and leaves the room.

I happen to know exactly why he needs to speak with Roose Bolton, but of course I wasn’t going to say so. It wouldn't do me any good to reveal that particular hand at the moment. Better to let it play out for now.

I go straight back to my desk chair and sit, slump down, and stare into space. My thoughts twist and dive and float about. Sansa. Sansa. Sansa.

_‘Seven months, sir.’_

I exhale long and slow, rubbing an eyebrow.

 _‘I’m glad I could please you, Mr. Baelish.’_

I throw my head forward and groan into my hands. What am I going to do? What has she done? Does she even know what she’s done? 

Does she? 

I know in my gut that I will not be able to relax until she is mine. I just know. I see Sansa a little clearer now, and I can tell. I can tell she needs someone like me. I know what she needs. 

So, there’s really only one direction to go. Only one option I’ll accept. One course of action.

I scramble for a calendar on my desk or my iPhone, whichever is closest. I open the little calendar on my desktop first, and it says— it says it’s Friday. I sigh. At least this gives me time a couple days to really think this over. I close my eyes.

I immediately get a flash of Sansa’s fiery hair fanned out across bedsheets, her face turned away from me, just the corner of a grin just visible, and the stretch of a long, pale neck.

My eyes fly open. I want to punch something. I _cannot_ think about this now. I feel my teeth grind together and have to take a moment to relax all the points of tension in my body. Then I start scribbling a long note to my executive assistant, determination flowing through me. I’ll kill two birds with one stone. Before I head out and drop the note, I lean back in my chair and close my eyes one more time, wanting to soak up the last of the warmth Sansa left before I forget how it felt.

_Sansa, leaning over her tray, black lace against sheer white, silver locket necklace swinging._

_Sansa and her subtle obedience._

_Sansa blushing sweet burgundy._

_Sansa studying my face with careful blue eyes._

_Sansa walking away in her snug little black pencil skirt, looking back shyly._

 

I will have her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! Just a note-- Petyr's chapters will likely always be shorter than Sansa's because his voice doesn't come as easily to me, so I'm just rolling with that.
> 
> And also! You may, perhaps, like me just now, have noticed that I apparently like writing in the nittygritty internal experience of the characters. It's just what happens when I start typing. That's all, hope you enjoy!


	3. to feel satiated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Going out tonight simultaneously feels like the only thing I want to do and the very last thing I want to do. With everything on my mind, staying home feels safe and maybe what I should do, to process and stay even-keeled or whatever... But everything with Petyr today has wound me up so tight and made me so frazzled that some deep dark instinct is urging me to go full out.

3  
Sansa

_I can’t believe this is a man I’ve known my entire life… I can't believe he asked my actual opinion... I can't I can’t believe I’m thinking about his mouth in rush hour traffic. And this is the first time I’ve truly… interacted? Connected? Am I just being some stupid little girl right now? He asked me for some casual input and smiled at me. That doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t. He’d never be interested in an insignificant, naive… I’m his friend’s kid. He’s obligated to be nice to me._

No. No, screw that logic. I’m not crazy. I’m not. That was something. It _was_. My intuition couldn’t possibly be _that_ wrong, that _entire_ time. I _felt_ it. I did not imagine that. I couldn’t have— right?

I turn left off of Melrose, finally away from the worst of the traffic. As I do, someone two lanes to my right lays on their horn and soon another follows in response. I roll up the windows and turn the radio on, loud. 

I really can’t dwell on this. I’ll go mad if I don’t let this go. Mr. Baelish… Petyr… I’ve know him my entire life, and he’s known my parents _their_ entire lives. I mean, it’s not like he was babysitting my siblings and I every week or anything. It wasn’t like that. He was a family friend, he _is_ a family friend. But still, should I feel weird about that? Because, in all honestly, I don’t. I don’t feel weird about it at all. 

Honestly, it actually makes me feel… I don’t know. It’s confusing. I’m confused. He’s my coworker and superior at work, almost like a pseudo-uncle to my me and siblings, twenty years years older than me and—

I turn the volume up higher. 

This is ridiculous.

Making a list of reasons why it shouldn’t happen is ridiculous. 

It’s ridiculous because I know very well that I already made my decision about two hours ago, the second I left his office.

_So what now?_

I careen into the parking garage of my apartment building, jog to the elevators, and try to suppress a scream of general frustration. A door finally opens and I nearly knock foreheads with a muscular guy with a crew cut and a gym tank.

“Oh, hey, Gendry,” I say.

After a moment of shock, he starts moving his hands around, trying to find some place to put them. He tries and fails to make eye contact. I know why. The poor guy thinks they’re still flying under the radar.

This is the second time this month that we’ve crossed paths in the lobby. He freezes up and tries to act like he wasn’t just in her flat, despite both of us knowing he doesn’t know anyone else in this building.

“Oh, hey—yeah, hey, Sansa,” he shifts his weight around. He looks up at the ceiling of the elevator like there’s something interesting up there. Gods.

“How’s Arya?”

“Uh, what?” He looks at me and his drops shoulders drop when he sees my ‘not-having-it’ expression. “Oh yeah, Arya? Oh yeah, she’s good. She’s good.”

“You know, I’m not Robb. You’re _allowed_ to date her. Also, literally everyone knows. Like, everyone. So…” I shrug past him. “Don’t be weird and chances are no one else will be, either.”

I press the button for the fourth floor as Gendry clears the lift. He shifts his weight around and gives a strained laugh but he does look significantly less uncomfortable as the doors start to close, and even gives a small smile.

“Yeah, okay. You’re right. Thanks.”

“No problem. See you around.”

“See you.” 

Gendry’s a good guy. He makes Arya really happy, so I never mind his occasional sullenness or awkwardness. I’m happy for them. I remember wondering when I was younger if there was ever going to be someone who could keep up with Arya who would also deserve her. Figures that my tomboy, romance-repulsed little sister would meet her perfect match before I did. Their whole thing might be a little less painful if they’d just make it official already, though.

Once on my floor, I see Arya walking back from the trash chute just as she sees me. 

As we’re about to pass each other, she sticks her tongue out at me and I return the gesture. At the last second she reaches out to scruff up my hair, but I anticipate it and duck under her hand.

“Ha!” I bark, grinning with self-satisfaction.

“Yeah, yeah,” she replies, not turning around. I can just hear the eye roll. I’m still smiling with smug pride from beating her at her game for once when I reach my door (five down from Arya’s) and wiggle my key into the sticky lock until it gives.

_“Sansa!”_ Margaery’s rasp comes from somewhere on the ground as soon as I step inside.

“What? What is it?!” I scan around until I find Marg sprawled out on the kitchen floor.

“It won’t come out. It just won’t!”

I see what she’s holding— a pink silky dress stained heavily with red wine, strewn across her lap. A glass rests beside her full of more wine, likely the perpetrator. I sigh inwardly and stoop down to her level, confiscating the glass and setting it aside.

“How much have you been drinking, Marg?” I ask carefully.

She huffs dramatically. “I literally had one sip, Sans, and then some god must have been like, ‘nope! Not today, Margaery. Sorry. We don’t want you looking that good tonight.’”

Now that I’m closer, I’m inclined to believe her. She does seem sober— sometimes it’s hard to honestly tell, since she’s constantly cranking up the dramatics at any level of inebriation. Thank the Gods, though, because I am not prepared to deal with meltdown Margaery on this particular day. I eye the glass for a moment, though, wondering how bad it would look for me to chug it down right now.

“That’s what I was going to wear tonight,” she says, more quietly and reasonably now.

“Hey, you borrow my red mini again, if you want. The one that you wore to Myrcella’s fifteenth last summer?”

“Really?” Marg turns her face up to me with a little sparkle of hope.

“Of course, Marg. You know you can always borrow whatever of mine.”

Before I know it’s happening, Margaery is pulling my face down and kissing me full on the mouth. She pulls away with a smack and beams up at me.

“You’re my forever favorite, Sansa Stark. You’re a shining star. You’re the fucking best.”

There’s a lot I could say, but all I can manage is a small laugh and, “Yeah, I know.”

Margery pops up from the kitchen floor and trots back towards our shared closet between the bedrooms.

The red dress isn’t really Arbor attire, I realize then with interest. I only brought it up because it seemed in the same vein of ‘fancy’ as the stained dress she’d been mourning in the kitchen. 

When I pop my head into the bathroom (home of the best lighting in the apartment,) Marg has just finished shimmying into the red dress. She meets my gaze through the mirror, grins, and spins her back to me with her hands on her hips.

Wordlessly, I begin to lace up the corset-like back of the dress.

“Oh, by the way— we got invited to go out with some of Loras’s friends in West Hollywood. I figured you’d be okay missing one more 90’s cover band at The Arbor.”

I laugh. “Bold of you to assume that I wasn’t looking forward to that with all my heart.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay. You hate 90’s music, you told me that once.”

“What?”

“You did. Don’t pretend you didn’t.”

“Marg, I think you’re thinking of someone else.”

“It’s okay, Sansa, if it isn’t your cup of tea then it just isn’t your cup of tea! You can tell the truth, it’s just you and me now. Come on.”

“Margaery! I can’t believe—!”

“Oh, I’m just playing with you, Sansa!” Margaery giggles. I tie off the last notch of the dress, shaking my head at her. I wouldn’t take this shit from anyone else. My friendship with Margaery is nothing short of a miracle. 

“Where are we going, then?” I ask, stepping back to check my handiwork. 

Gods, it’s not fair. Her waist is so tiny to begin with, so in this dress, her figure is just downright jaw-dropping. My eyes cling to the curves it creates. The lines of the dress itself keep the overall look classy even though the whole point is to play up the sex as much as possible. It’s unreal. I don’t hide the pout on my face.

“A club, real exclusive, apparently— but the real question, missy, is what are you wearing?”

Considering this makes my stomach roll. Choosing an outfit makes it feel real. 

Going out tonight simultaneously feels like the only thing I want to do and the very last thing I want to do. With everything on my mind, staying home feels safe and maybe what I should do, to process and stay even-keeled or whatever. You know, to handle it as an adult. But everything with Petyr today has wound me up so tight and made me so frazzled that some deep dark instinct is urging me to go full out, black out, and make out with as many randoms as I need to to feel satiated. To forget. Not permanently, but at least for a while. 

“I’m going to take two shots of something and then I’ll answer that question for you.” The sentence spills out of me smoothly, as though it just rolled out of my brain and into my mouth without my permission. 

Margaery literally _’whoop!’s_ out loud and follows me into the kitchen where I pour us out two shots of cheap peach-flavored vodka. There’s nothing in the fridge to use as chaser, so I find a bag of sour gummy worms in the pantry and slam them down on the counter in front of us. Marg bursts into maniacal laughter, delighted to finally have me on her level for once.

“Fuck yeah,” she says, looking at me like maybe I’m possessed but that she’s glad about it, and we clink our thrift-store shot glasses and begin.

 

Three and-a-half sour gummy worm shots later, Marg and I are fogging up the bathroom mirror from being so close and focusing so hard— she’s attempting a cat-eye, and I’m being freakishly meticulous about the clean edges of my deep red lipstick. Once satisfied, I take a puff dipped in shimmery powder and start patting it all over my collarbones, shoulders, and more carefully, my cheekbones. There. Now I’m a really a shining star. 

Margaery starts giggling at something that isn’t the sight of me as a glammed-up fairy wearing a torn-up, paint-stained sleep shift. 

“What?” I ask, starting to giggle, too, just from hearing her do it.

“I don’t even know. Why did we lace this up at six o’fucking clock PM?” She gestures to the back of her dress and starts giggling harder. “That was so stupid!”

“Oh no! Can you breathe?” I hiccup.

“Yeah, but—” Margaery’s eyes suddenly go wide and serious. “ _Sansa!_ What are you going to wear? We’ve got to make you look devastating.”

“Yes, good,” I nod, setting down the last of my makeup. I’m on board with that. Devastating.

Margaery bolts to the closet and returns immediately, throwing a silver blur at me— a dress. 

It’s a thin-strapped metallic number that looks to be around knee-length. The material isn’t full-on metal, but it’s both thin and heavy enough to lay flush and cool against the places my hands hold it. It’s drapey and slinky and clingy and low-cut and perfect.

“Wow. Thanks, Marg.”

“Yeah, no problem. I can’t get into it anymore, anyway. Plus, silver looks amazing on you.”

I hold it up against me in the mirror, then quickly change into it to get the true effect. It hits a couple inches below the knee at an angle and the neckline swoops into a light draping effect over my chest in just the perfect place. I shine. The contrast of the dark red lips is striking. I look like a goddamn award. And a prestigious one.

I reach behind me and unclasp my white T-shirt bra and slide it out from under the dress. I mean, the dress’s straps are basically the size of necklace chains and both the front and back dip too low to realistically accommodate a bra, but it’s more than that. I know full well the effect it’ll give. I’m going for devastation, right?

“It’s a no-bra kind of dress,” I announce, dropping it at my feet.

A surge of confidence flows through me— I feel delightfully wicked, which I have to say is new for me. I look over to Marg and see the same glint reflected in her eyes right back at me. She nods.

“Let’s blow this popsicle stand.” She slams down her eyeliner and starts for the kitchen. “Let’s do another shot first, though. And double check that you have your fake this time.”

_“Yes, mom,”_ I call after her.

——————————

3  
Petyr

The crowd below has been gradually growing louder and louder for some time, but it’s reached the point now where I finally feel compelled to stand and step onto the tiny, discreet balcony to look upon the scene.

Beneath me, the roped-off line skirting the side of the building is about turn the corner and out of sight. Cigarette smoke wafts skyward. Cars stop in the middle of the boulevard to deposit groups of glamorous young people smugly pretending not to notice all the eyes on them. Boisterous laughter obscures any conversation I might've been able to hear from here. I check my watch.

The Baratheon child should’ve arrived forty minutes ago. 

“Ros,” I call to the red-head with a laptop in her face.

“Yes, Mr. Baelish?”

“Would you tell Olyvar down there to go green, please? And remind everyone of our situation tonight, if you would. Let’s treat this as a green-gold. Everyone sharp.”

“Right away,” she answers, putting aside her work. “Is it— is he here, then?”

“In the next fifteen minutes, I imagine.”

“Alright,” she answers, tugging down her dress as she stands. “Will you need me back up here after? Or should I just start down below?”

I consider this. “I shouldn’t need anything more from you up here tonight. You’ll likely see me below anyhow. Thanks, Ros.”

Ros takes the dismissal and slips out of the office. 

“Office” might be misleading— the room itself isn’t as so much an office as a room that simply functions as one. Apart from the corner containing my books, records, desktop computer, and two chairs across from the desk, the room is more of a sparse lounge. 

It’s small, with a high ceiling that slants down towards the balcony ever so slightly. A mini-fridge hums quietly in the corner near the door, no doubt stocked with Olyvar’s energy drinks or shots of turmeric or cold-pressed-whatever-the-hell. I don’t know why anyone would subject themselves to that stuff when there’s coffee. The thought of it sends a ghost of the aroma through me.

The pale blue curtains around the balcony door flutter with a breeze that makes me shudder from something other than cold.

The volume of voices outside swells suddenly, and I see the line pick up. Good. I’m about to lay back on the couch opposite my desk just to close my eyes for a moment when the volume doesn’t just swell up again— it explodes.

I turn back around wearily to see Joffrey Baratheon step out of a large black town car, his signature unearned cocky smirk leading the way. There aren’t a ton of paparazzi, but still some cameras flash. The bursts of sharp white light cut through space at a relentless and unforgiving speed, and from here I can see the weasel fail to hold back a flinch. On his arm is a dazed-looking girl I don’t recognize with garish pink hair and tits pushed up to her chin. Interesting.

It appears they weren’t the first ones to climb out, though, because I recognize Violet Rowan walking just ahead of them. She is glowing with excitement, her perfectly white teeth burning the retinas of the plebeians in line as well as at a few cameras aimed her way. She and Loras Tyrell bypass the line and go straight inside. 

I watch carefully, waiting to see if anyone else I need to know about will emerge. A few more people do leave the car— two men, one woman, all college-aged. Only one of the three I recognize— a USC football player who I honestly can’t be bothered to conjure a name for. I relax a bit. More names will show up, I’m sure, but the biggest ones I’m expecting are already here and accounted for.

Ms. Violet Rowan booked in advance a large, cordoned-off table for bottle service for the entire night. I put her table right up front.

See, this is good for business. Violet is publicly dating Loras, of course, but is obsessed with the rat Joffrey and will do anything to win him over. She’s been trying for a while, actually, it’s been hard to watch. So, of course, when Joffrey was photographed inside my club two weeks ago, she most likely decided that bringing everyone here was a smart move towards winning his shriveled little heart. Or maybe she decided it’s at least a smart move to get him drunk and touchy. 

It’s very basic move, but it’s certainly been known to work, I’ll give her that.

It comes down to this: attention, good or bad, means intrigue, intrigue means business, and business gives me what I want— information. 

Information is knowledge, and knowledge is… well, you know.

Even if something goes wrong with the whiny rich children and one of them gets mean and throws a fit, it can only benefit me. It only attracts more information in the end, doesn’t it?

I shrug off my jacket and remove the little gold mockingbird pin to look at it more closely.

I’m not a fool. I know the danger of the little pricks and I certainly known the danger of their parents— but my philosophy has always been that everything is an opportunity when you know what you’re doing. And the fact is, I know the inner workings of these Hollywood dynasties better than they know themselves. I know which moves to make to make them move in my direction. Or away. Or in circles if I really felt like it.

I pin the little bird onto the darker suit jacket I’ll wear tonight and admire the contrast.

Tonight, at least, the best move is a flat and simple one— making sure the brats have the time of their lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always write more than I mean to, I guess that means I'm having fun.
> 
> Think of it as... intellectual foreplay? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> More soon, like real soon xx


	4. the boldest thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fuck it. I want to taste what it’s like to be free of doubt. It can be a game. A _what’s-the-boldest-thing-I-can-say-in-this-situation?_ game.

4  
Sansa

“We’re here with Violet Rowan!” Margaery yells to the bouncer over the loud general buzz. She’s leaning over his podium, trying to get as close as possible to his ears and his clipboard. Her tits look great that way and I’m sure she’s very aware of that.

It’s finally dark outside now, but still warm. With my back to the crowd, all that my senses seem to be picking up is the the loud static-like hum of voices coming from every direction, the bass buzzing in my ribs from the music inside, the glare of headlights from off the street, and now the sight of Margaery, trying to reason with this absolute mountain of a man.

The man— like, actually massive, by the way— looks sternly at us in silence. His eyes move back and forth over our faces in a cross of doubt and annoyance.

_“Loras!”_ she screams suddenly, waving her arms in the direction of the entrance. _“LORAS!!”_

I watch as a gorgeous brown curly mop of hair weaves through the crowd and makes its way outside. 

And then he’s here, and my gut sinks. Loras Tyrell is a great guy. I mean that. But that still doesn’t stop the icky feeling from rolling through me as he smiles at us. 

Technically Margaery is the cause of my discomfort right now— she’s the one who told him a couple years ago about my ‘lifelong crush’ on him. In reality, I really only had a crush on Loras from about age twelve to age fifteen. That was when not only did I just calm down a bit overall, but I realized that he was most likely gay and moved on peacefully.

Margaery is older than me, and by more than most people realize. She’s twenty-one, and I only just turned eighteen. People like to tell us that this is strange, especially when they find out we live together and see how we act like out-of-control twins.

If we were in our thirties or forties, no one would say anything about it, but I guess I see what they all mean. People expect more of a mentor-mentee/older sister-younger sister type relationship between us, but it really isn’t like that and never has been. Maybe it was at the beginning… but that was so long ago and I still doubt it greatly. 

Margaery and I have simply known each other too long and too well to act in any other fashion. She once postulated that perhaps she acts younger than her age and that I act older than mine, so it evens out, which is interesting to consider. I can think of too much counter-evidence to ever subscribe that theory, though. Luckily the age thing doesn’t really get in our way all too much, especially once Margaery found us IDs.

Ever so often, though… she’ll pull the age card. 

It’s generally only when she needs a good excuse for something she did that she can’t otherwise justify… like telling Loras that I’ve been in love with him my entire life.

_‘Sansa, trust me. I know right now it feels like the end of the world, but that’s only because you’re so young! You haven’t had enough experience with other guys to know how little of a deal this is! It wasn’t a big deal to him!’_

I told her— _He’s your brother! You didn’t HAVE to say anything at all! No one made you!_

And then she somehow found a way to pull TWO age cards at once—

_‘Sansa, you know Loras is already four years older than me. That makes him seven years older than you. He and I have a sibling relationship that is more mature than you can understand right now. When you’re a little older you might see what I mean, with Robb or something! You don’t see this like we do, it’s not something shameful at all when you grow up a little and see the big—!’_

I teeter on one of my heels and realize someone has just addressed me.

_Oh no. Did he just say hello? I can’t remember._

I stifle a hiccup and throw on my most convincing ‘OMG-so-thrilled-to-see-you!’ face.

“Loras!” I cry, “It’s so good to see you!”

He smiles at me so I’m pretty sure I’ve said the correct thing.

“It’s great to see you, too, Sans!” He glances between us. “Let’s get you girls stamped and on in here!”  
The big, big man gestures for our left hands and presses an indigo-inked design onto the insides of our wrists. I take back my hand, thanking him. Then my breath catches in my throat before I really understand why.

The stamp— it’s his mockingbird. It’s Petyr’s mockingbird, I’m sure of it.

Somehow my feet keep taking me forward and follow Loras and Margaery inside and into the crowd.

At first I’m confused, because why would the exact design of Petyr Baelish’s gold pin be on the hand stamps of a nightclub? It’s too distinct of a design for it to be random.

Oh. 

I’m an idiot. 

I am an idiot.

Petyr Baelish owns a club in Hollywood. 

I knew that.

I’ve known for forever. He’s had it my whole life.

It’s just… it just never seemed like a relevant thing, growing up. I knew it but I didn’t have reason to care. I never really thought about it. I never thought— I didn’t think it would be— I just—

Realizing this feels like someone lifting a veil and everything suddenly being too bright.

“Margaery,” I hiss, “Margaery, what’s the name of this club?”

I didn’t even ask her, before. I didn’t even look for the goddamn name outside. I am an idiot.

“—Mockingbird!” she yells over her shoulder.

I’m tempted to peel away from the two of them and head straight for the bathrooms just to be alone. I’m tempted to beeline for the bar and drink anything that’s offered to me. I’m tempted to flee back outside for colder, clearer air. I’m tempted to go home. 

I don’t, though. I don’t do any of that. 

I keep following Margaery following Loras through the thickening crowd, brushing and bumping against more and more people as we near the very heart of the floor. I’m much more aware of my surroundings now; I almost feel sober, which was definitely not the case five minutes ago. 

Marg and Loras come to a pause in front of me as another group passes.

Okay, so I’m in Petyr’s club. So what? He owns it but that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s here. And even if he’s here, it’s not like I’m doing anything wrong, right? Apart from being underage, that is. Which I guess could actually be a potential issue… but something tells me he’s not the type to call my parents.

Am I intruding just by being here? Am I crossing some kind of boundary? He’s my boss, and before that, with my family, he was always… I don’t know. A kind presence— firm, protective. I don’t know what he is now. I don’t want to make things weird— I want to be a professional, like him. I like my job and… I like the idea of being near him, of getting to stay near him. I’m worried that him seeing little Sansa playing dress up in his nightclub will threaten that.

My mind skips to the memory, only hours ago, of standing so close to him and to the raging heat I felt under his even gaze. I imagine again the angle of his jaw, of the muscle flexing under skin as he watched me study him. And I decide.

I’m a grown adult, I’m in a public establishment, on a weekend, and I don’t have to sit at the kiddie table anymore. Anywhere. 

So _there._

I hear the squeal of Violet Rowan rise above the din as she catches sight of us.

“Margaery!” It takes her a second, but she remembers my name. “Sansa! I’m so glad you came out!”

Margaery slips down next to Violet and immediately starts babbling animatedly about some event they’ve been planning together. A gala or something, I don’t care enough to remember right now. I collect my features and turn to the other faces at the table. 

On the far left of the booth is a couple that hasn’t once yet acknowledged my presence with a single look, so I don’t even bother with them. I introduce myself to the ridiculously good-looking guy sitting to their right, though— he’s a linebacker for USC, apparently, and is definitely high as a kite right now. _Arthur,_ I try to remember, though I know I won’t. 

The guy to Arthur’s right goes in for a handshake that pulls me into him. His hands are cool and tacky and his dilated pupils tell me he’s on something more intense that his pal Arthur. 

“Stark— are you Robb’s sister, then?” he coos at me. His eyes aren’t roaming, necessarily, but the way they move across me is much too intimate for my comfort. I feel like I’m being sized up to eat. I test the waters by leaning back a bit, but his grip doesn’t loosen.

“Yeah,” I tell him. I add a laugh. “He is.”

The man—Damon’s his name— actually lets me pull back a little at this. Figures.

“Oh, cool. Great guy, Robb. Great guy.” He still has my hand in his grip. What am I even supposed to say to this? His reaction gives me an idea.

“Oh, yeah? I’m glad you think so! Do you know him? Are you two close? Maybe he’s mentioned you— it was Damon, right? You go to ‘SC? Wait, let me guess— you’re one of his fraternity brothers!” I lay it on thick and it works. He lets go of my hand and even leans all the way back against the booth. His arms cross, doing his best to seem casual.

“Oh no, I’ve had classes with him is all. He’s very… smart. Very cool,” he nods.

My brother would fucking hate this guy, I can just tell. 

“Great guy,” he finishes lamely. Yeah, Robb has definitely fucked this guy up. I wonder how it happened. I have to smile just imagining.

I do smile. I won’t have to worry about this guy tonight, at least.

I pretend to be distracted by the person sitting to his right, a beautiful golden-skinned girl with insane cleavage and warm eyes. Her shockingly pink hair, though, is what I choose to go with to exit my conversation with Handshake.

“Oh! Wow, how beautiful!” I step towards her, eyes fixed on her updo.

Her hand flies up to her hair unconsciously and does an awkward little pat, her shy smile breaking into a grin.

“Thank you! It’s Sansa, right?” When I nod she adds, “Your hair is so beautiful, too. And my name is Emma, Emma Dayne.” 

She shakes my hand. I recognize her surname but can’t think from where.

“It’s nice to meet you,” I say, already steeling myself for the last face in line.

I already knew Joffrey would be here. If I hadn't, this would be a very different scene right now. Margaery told me in the Uber over here, all supportive and apologetic, even though I suspect she deliberately waited until when we were in the car to stop me from bailing. I’m glad I had some warning, but really no amount of warning is ever enough to face Joffrey. I hold back the panic in my throat the best I can and manage to turn and look at him. 

The demon looks exactly same as the last time I saw him, ugly blonde hilights and all. I like to tell myself that I’ve made peace with the idea of having to see him repeatedly despite everything that happened, but the physical reaction I’m having right now says otherwise. Any other sane person would avoid him like the plague. But not me, I’m clearly insane. It brings me at least a little satisfaction to know he hates seeing me, too.

“You look well, Sansa,” he says with an arm around the Dayne girl. He says it casually, but it still makes my skin crawl.

“Thanks, Joff,” I answer sweetly, knowing my use of the nickname will irritate him, “so do you.”

The Dayne girl perks up, friendlier than all hell. “You want some champagne? We just opened a new one!”

This girl clearly does not know the history between Joffrey and I or she would not be this chipper to my face right now. I feel a surge of shame. I pity her. I wish I could tear her away from him. 

I decide I need something a little stronger than champagne. 

“Wow, thanks! I’d love some maybe a little later. I think I’m gonna dance for a bit first,” I lie, and start back the way we I had just come. Fast.

“Ooh, fun!” I hear her say, “what a great idea!”

I’m far enough away that I figure I can get away with pretending not to have heard her, so that’s what I do. I slip through the crowd more easily alone than I did clumped together with Loras and Margaery, and I slip just as easily up into a spot at the crowded bar.

The bar itself is impressive in design and scale, with four working bartenders in just this section alone. The back wall is a solid mirror with floor-to-ceiling glass shelves displaying rows and rows of expensive and exotic liquors. Looking at it all, I realize I have no idea what to order. I almost laugh out loud. A week ago I was seventeen— I know little no nothing about actual mixed drinks. The only thing I can think is to order a shot of something or a vodka cranberry, something Margaery orders frequently for us other places.

“Want my recommendation?” The playful question comes in a low voice from a man to my left in his thirties. 

I don’t overthink it. “How’d you know?” I try to keep my voice light like his.

He laughs. “Just a guess.”

“It wasn’t the lost look on my face?” I turn to face him, leaning on the bar top. 

“Maybe it was a little bit of that, too.”

He’s handsome. No denying. His wavy dark hair is a bit wild and unruly in places but his scruff is thick and nicely kept. His eyes are the sort that are so expressive as to be able to convey actual laughter in them, and that’s what I’m looking up into now— ochre eyes that are actually smiling down at me. It feels nice. I decide I like this guy.

He turns to one of the bartenders and is somehow able to get their attention immediately, like magic. He orders two of a drink that I don’t quite catch the name of. I look up wonderingly at my new friend. Nobody has ever just bought me a drink in a situation like this before and I can’t help but feel uncomfortable for a moment, unsure of the social protocol.

“Thanks,” I say. 

I decide then and there that I’m just going to act like I know I’m doing for the rest of the night, even when I haven’t got a clue. Fuck it. I want to taste what it’s like to be free of doubt. It can be a game. A _what’s-the-boldest-thing-I-can-say-in-this-situation?_ game.

“If you don’t mind me asking, how old are you?” 

I try not to roll my eyes.

“Twenty-one,” I answer. “How old are you?” 

“Thirty-three. Are you sure you’re twenty-one?”

“Am I sure? Well, yeah, that’s what it says on my ID.” I say it straight but can’t help the smirk creeping into the corners of my mouth.

This guy is looking at me with open awe. I feel giggly.

“Oh, don’t stress. I’m an adult. And my name is Sansa, by the way, thank you very much for asking.”

I hope he gets what I’m saying. I don’t really feel like explicitly announcing that I’m eighteen years of age in front of four bartenders whose legal and moral obligation of their profession behooves them to remove any underage persons from the premises.

“Oh gods, I’m so sorry— I was about to ask you, I swear,” he says, inching closer with a look of exaggerated remorse on his face. Like a puppy. “I must seem so rude. Forgive me, won’t you?”

“It’s kind of hard to forgive a nameless person,” I counter.

He gives a loud, short laugh. “Oberyn is the person. Oberyn Martell. Will you forgive him?”

“Sure. Well— only if he buys me a drink.”

_Who am I right now?_

Exhilaration courses through me— my game is actually working. 

_Whoever I am, I like her._

As if on cue, the bartender pushes forward two identical cocktails and Oberyn slides back the cash. 

“Well thank god for this then,” he says as he delicately hands me a drink. “I don’t think I could survive otherwise.”

I smile coyly behind my glass, hold it up a few inches, then clink its edge against his. I notice him in my peripheral vision watching my reaction as I take my first sip.

“Mm,” I say, “this is really good. Thank you.” 

“Is it?” he asks as though he’s unsure, even though he’s clearly pleased with himself.

I nod and take a longer sip. It tastes like strawberry lemonade without all the heavy sugar syrup that usually comes with that type of thing. It tastes… clean and smooth and vaguely like strawberries, if I had to describe it.

“I’m glad you like it. It would be kind of awkward if you didn’t after all of that, no?” 

“Oh please, it’s not like I would’ve run away screaming,” I tease. I’m halfway through my drink but I’m not about to slow down just for the sake of looking daintier. Nope, not tonight.

“Does that mean you’ll stay, then?”

“Stay where?” I look around. At the bar? At the club? Next to him?

“Who did you come here with, Sansa?” he asks, skirting my question.

“My friend,” I say, “we’re kind of with a group, but not really. She’s over with them right now, towards the front. I’m sort of stalling. I like maybe _one_ person out of all of them. The drink helps, though, thanks for that.”

My words are coming freely now, but I’m not concerned— I throw back the rest of my drink and wait for Oberyn Martell’s impending proposition.

“I’m with a group, too,” he starts. “…They’re not down here, though. They’re upstairs.”

I sense something new and intriguing in his voice. His free hand lifts tentatively to rest around the curve of my upper arm.

“Have you ever been upstairs?” he asks, sliding his fingers down to my elbow.

“Upstairs?”

“Right above us. The Mockingbird’s second tier.” When I don’t respond, he tries again. “I don’t know what you like, Ms. Sansa, but I think you might be interested.”

“Take me.” I say, cutting him off even as he clearly had more to say. He doesn’t look convinced, maybe because of how easily I accepted, so I say it again. “Take me, I want to go.”

His eyes scan mine, looking for something. I look right back as challengingly as I know how. Truth be told, right now I feel like I could handle anything. If the upstairs ends up being a sex dungeon (attic?) I would be cool with that. Hells, I’ve never seen one before, so at the very least I’d be learning something new _and_ I’d be a floor away from Joffrey. But mostly, now that Oberyn has dangled this in front of me, I simply need to grab it. I need to know.

“Alright then,” he says very calmly, then places our empty glasses back onto the bar top. 

And then he’s grabbing my hand and I’m being yanked away after him—he pulls me through the crowd like we’re two drunk kids weaving through a corn maze. I’m giggling like crazy and he keeps checking over his shoulder with a grin as though still incredulous of my existence. I give little screams whenever he pulls me in a direction I’m not expecting, and finally we crash together near a stairwell when there’s nothing else but him to stop my momentum.

I can’t catch my breath— because of the running, because of the laughing, and because of the look on Oberyn’s face when I’m able to pull myself upright. His mischievous matches my mischievous. I feel amplified.

The stairwell is incredibly discreet and plain. As we climb the steps I notice a woman on the landing above, watching us. The first thing I register is her hair’s vibrant shade of red, the second that she looks professional and must work here. With one quick look at Oberyn and barely a glance at me, she pulls open the door to the second floor of the Mockingbird. Oberyn gestures for me to go first, so I go ahead step inside, prodded by the light pressure of his hand against my back.

——————————

4  
Petyr

“How’s everything going downstairs?”

Ros looks as tired as I feel. I feel a bit guilty watching the effort it takes her to form her thoughts.

“Fine. We found out who that pink-haired girl is— Emma Dayne. I’m not sure what that means, but I’m sure you do. No one too important came in through standby, but Will Manderly and Alice Hightower came in together about an hour ago through VIP and ended up at the Baratheon table. Margaery Tyrell and the older Stark girl got here and joined them up front, too. Gregor almost didn’t let them in, apparently. I don’t know where Lucie was or why she wasn’t at the front but—”

“What?”

“Yeah, he didn’t believe them, wouldn’t even take their IDs. I guess you can’t really blame the guy— he’s pretty visual and neither of them have ever been here before, so it’s not like—”

“—Are you talking about Sansa Stark? The Stark girl?”

“Yeah, the redhead. The older one.”

This is a development. 

I have to say, I’m surprised, and I’m not easily surprised. Thinking now, Margaery Tyrell brought Sansa here, Loras brought Margaery, and Violet brought Loras. It makes perfect sense.

Did she know this was my club when she came here? Does she realize even now? In the years I’ve known her, I don’t ever remember discussing it with her. It was never a secret, but it was never a topic of discussion. I’ve always kept this endeavor so separate from my others… I hope this is not a shock to her. I want her to know me, but coming to the Mockingbird is a bit of a plunge into the deep end.

I need to see her. I don’t even need to speak with her and I certainly won’t bother her— I just need to see her with my own eyes.

I’m not sure how I’ll react to seeing her so plainly and strangely in the center of my second world. This world I inhabit isn’t one of board rooms and pencil skirts. This one is very different. I’ve never had reason to consider whether she could fit, but now it doesn’t matter.

“You said she was at the table with the Baratheon child?”

“Yes, that where they went first—”

My mind starts spinning with ideas and scenarios and logistics.

“— but I actually just let her in up here maybe ten minutes ago. She was with Oberyn Martell of all people.”

_What in the seven hells?_

“I’m sorry, did you just say Oberyn Martell?”

“Yeah. They were eye-fucking up the stairs and giggling like school children.”

This detail is what sends me over the edge. 

_“Stop. Stop there.”_

I didn’t mean to speak so sharply. Ros knows I’m not angry with her, though, even if she acts upset. I take a deep breath before continuing. 

“So they’re here. Now?”

I gesture to the door on our right, the second tier entrance.

Ros, now apparently disinclined to speak aloud, nods her head in unmistakeable confirmation.

_May the mother have mercy… Sansa Stark is inside my strip club._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot, as they say, goes kinda loopy?
> 
> Also, it thickens. I hope.
> 
> Extra note: I have some original characters in here with familiar surnames. I'm not a super expert on ASOIAF but I did choose houses that fit my purposes for the way I may use the characters in the future-- so, basically, know that the identities of the original characters are not random but aren't based on canon, either. Thanks :)


	5. is anyone doing shots?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Everything inside of me is boiling. This is wrong— not that the underage daughter of my oldest friend is doing shots in my secret, semi-legal strip club. It’s that _he_ is causing that color in her pale freckled cheeks.
> 
> Maybe that’s not how I ought to feel, but I don’t care."

5  
Sansa

My first thought upon entering is, delightfully and embarrassingly, _Holy mother of boobs._

The room, which is roughly the size of the dance floor below, is full of topless and otherwise scantily-clad women.

A few are simply strolling around, others are serving drinks, a few sit casually in the laps of well-dressed men, and one traipses around a pole at the other end of the room in platform heels triple the height of the ones on my feet. The light is low, moody, and uneven across the floor with some far edges of the room dropping into complete shadow. Music plays at a somewhat quieter volume than the music below but the songs feel dirtier and more bass heavy.

My second thought is— _This is all… Petyr’s?_

Oberyn leads me to a plush curved booth pushed side-to-side against two more of the same. The shallow semi-circle they create centers around a low table laden with various bottles of liquor, mixers, and champagne. 

I’m still hyper aware of his fingers barely resting on the small of my back.

“Oberyn!” a lean woman around Oberyn’s age with exquisite cheekbones exclaims, smiling. “What took you so long?”

Her eyes settle on me and something in her smile changes ever so slightly, growing brighter. I take the graceful hand she holds out for me; her gentle grip coaxes me down beside her without question.

“And what is your name, darling?” She says in a soft, faintly accented voice that I can’t place.

“Sansa,” I tell her, suddenly feeling both very shy and very curious.

“You have eyes like the dawn, has anyone ever told you that, Sansa?”

The compliment is so specific and poetic that it catches me off guard, and a little peel of nervous laughter escapes me.

I glance down at my knees for a moment in an attempt to school myself. I’m the bold one tonight, remember? I’m not thrown by anything. 

When I lift my head, I catch the woman sharing a look with Oberyn behind me before her eyes connect back to mine… and I understand what is going on here. 

It doesn’t frighten me. I notice the rest of the group in our semi-circle eyeing our interaction curiously and without judgement; a couple of people even smile warmly at me, just because. Nothing about this feels wrong or uncomfortable. I don’t have anything to lose here. So, I play the game again… _what’s the boldest thing I could do in this situation?_

I place my other hand over our clasped ones. 

“That is such a beautiful thing to say,” I say sincerely, because I actually mean it.

“Only for such a beautiful girl,” she answers, squeezing my hand before letting go. “Let me get you something, what do you like?”

I grin at Oberyn. “I have no idea.”

“Ellaria can help you, she has better tastes than even me,” he says as he sits on my other side. “As much as it pains me to admit.”

“Is anyone doing shots?” I ask plainly before Ellaria can offer to put together some complex drink that I’ll barely taste as throw it back as fast as possible.

“Yes,” she answers smoothly, not missing a beat. She swiftly pours three shots and hands one to both Oberyn and I. 

I don’t normally pay attention to hands, but this woman’s hands are so uniquely beautiful that I can’t help but stare. Her fingers are slender and graceful, and now they’re reaching up to gently hold my chin.

“Cheers,” she says to Oberyn, then to me, and holds my gaze as we tilt our heads back and swallow the liquor.

  
——————————

5  
Petyr

I leave Ros in the stairwell and loop around the side of the building into the girls’ staging area, what is effectively the back entrance to the second tier.

Only a few girls are back here (it’s Friday night, after all,) either changing or on break. The off-floor girls move aside quickly as I stalk past them through the row of lockers.

I break through the cloud of lingering perfume onto the busy tier floor and locate Olyvar standing watch in his usual position by the corner of the stage— slightly elevated and in near complete shadow, making it an ideal place to observe without being observed. I step up beside him and try to keep my voice even, as always.

“Where is Sansa Stark?” I won’t beat around the bush.

“Table seven,” he answers smoothly. Good man. 

I look to table seven. It’s a crowded one, but my eyes go straight to her like a magnet snapping into place. How could they not?

It’s jarring, at first. I recognize her, of course, but on another level… I don’t. 

Her normally flushed-pink lips have been painted a deep shade of red. She seems to be literally shining from the inside out, a soft glow undulating beneath the skin as the lights roam over her. I’ve never seen so much of her skin at once.

The dress she’s wearing gives the impression of armor, but moves like water. It drapes heavily over every inch it touches— falling into folds over her slender chest, wrapping in to her waist, and sliding along the slim curve of her hip before rippling down to her knees. Her body is slight, no doubt, but looking at her now I can see without question that she is not a girl anymore— or at least she’s not the girl I’ve been regarding her as. 

I watch her cheeks flush red at something the person next to her… at something Oberyn Martell has just said. 

Everything inside of me is boiling. This is wrong— not that the underage daughter of my oldest friend is doing shots in my secret, semi-legal strip club. It’s that _he_ is causing that color in her pale freckled cheeks. 

Maybe that’s not how I ought to feel, but I don’t care. 

As I keep watching, I notice that the woman on Sansa’s other side is being even more touchy than Oberyn is. I vaguely recognize her as one of his lovers and feel a twisting of anger.

Sansa seems confident right now, just from looking at her, but she’s also tipped back two or three shots in just the time I’ve been standing here. She’s young. She doesn’t know these people like I do.

Oberyn’s lover leans into Sansa and starts petting the neckline of her dress in the way you might pet the fur of a pet. I stop thinking and start walking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter-- we're getting there!


	6. lying by omission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Please?"

6  
Sansa

“Please let us, Sansa, pleeease?” Ellaria begs over-dramatically.

I’m laughing too hard to respond. It’s all so ridiculous! My new friends are so ridiculous, I love them. Love love love. They’re the best. The bee’s knees. The… some other euphemism for ‘good,’ hell if I know. Wonderful.

I try to tally up exactly how many drinks I’ve had tonight, but I can’t even remember how many I had before leaving the apartment to begin with, so I promptly give that up. How long ago was that? What time is it now? When did we even get here? I glance around for a clock but, unsurprisingly, there’s none to be found, and I really can’t be bothered to extricate my phone from my tiny, carefully-crammed handbag.

My body feels very… light. The music around us feels like it’s pulsing through me rather than at me through the speakers… I want to dance but I suppress the urge. No one on this floor is dancing except the girls being paid to do it.

A little jolt goes through me. _Where is Margaery? Is she downstairs dancing?_

Probably. Right next to Joffrey. 

Yup, I’m doing just fine right here.

“You can choose her,” Oberyn adds excitedly in my ear. “Go on, look around!” 

Their enthusiasm is so infectious that I find myself playing along and look around exaggeratedly. I catch sight of a blonde in a babydoll dress speaking to a brunette in fishnets, both of whom actually smile at me and I can’t believe my life. I squeeze one of their hands— I’m not even paying attention to which— and turn around, some joke or exclamation on my tongue when—

“Oberyn.”

The voice is cordial on the surface but vaguely threatening levels and levels below. I notice this because I know the voice.

It takes me a full second after laying eyes on him to realize I’m looking at Petyr Baelish.

He stands above the three of us in a suit nicer than even the ones he wears to work, and the sight of him… I’m majorly blanking. I totally forgot for a second there about the whole club-ownership thing. I almost just thought, _What’s Petyr doing here?_ Stupid. 

“Petyr! Good to see you, friend, it’s been far too long! Will you drink with us?” Oberyn sounds genuinely jovial, which sends an alarm off in my head. There’s no way Petyr would agree to that.

“Oh no, I couldn’t, I’m just doing my rounds. Is everyone doing well over here?”

He still hasn’t acknowledged me. Why hasn’t he acknowledged me?

“Yes! Everything is amazing, really! Your club is miraculous! You work so hard, look, it’s paying off! Please, just one drink with us?”

“Yes, please?” Ellaria echoes.

Petyr’s eyes snap right to mine and it’s like ice water down the back. 

“Alright. For you, just the one.”

He turns and yanks away an unused seat from the table next to us and sits down.

“You remember Ellaria, but Petyr, this is Sansa,” Oberyn says confidently, leaning back to give Petyr the full effect of me. “We met downstairs at your wonderful bar.”

His presence has sent me spiraling. I feel like my brain is screaming. There’s no better way to put it. It’s too loud and jumbled for me to even process how to begin to handle this situation, so I just look to Petyr with an expression that I’m sure could only be described as a cross between panic and confusion.

“Oh?” Petyr says, smiling pleasantly as ever. “It’s very nice to meet you, Sansa.”

“It’s nice to meet you, too,” I say softly, the words outside my mouth before I realize I’ve said them. _Wait, what?_

“This is Petyr Baelish, Sansa— he owns this club,” Oberyn explains, smiling down at me like he wants to watch my impressed reaction. I try to act cool and roll with it, because that’s what Petyr’s doing.

“Does he?” I manage to answer. 

All I’m aware of is the deftness of Petyr’s hands as they maneuver around the table pouring drinks, as though the rest of the world is blurred. I see and register everything, but only he is in focus.

“Yes,” Oberyn tells me, “he’s quite the successful businessman in this city.”

That last statement feels slightly less exuberant than his others, but that might be my imagination. 

“Well, Mr. Baelish, your nightclub is very beautiful. I’m very impressed with it.” 

“I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” he answers, passing the drinks to us, “and please, call me Petyr.”

Despite myself, I grin at him from behind my glass, not able to hold back an inch. 

He looks back at me approvingly, his eyes alive with something. He turns back to Oberyn, and I feel my face flush as soon as his eyes leave me.

“How long are you in town for, Oberyn? I was pleased but surprised to see your name on the list tonight.”

Oberyn starts to answer and I tune out.

At first, in my panic, I felt sick as though Petyr was just playing with me. Now I realize he _is_ , just in a different way. I have to be right… about today, the office, the _something_ ness.

My heart starts to pound, and I embrace it. I sit up, blood flowing through me like charged particles. I take a sip of Petyr’s drink, appreciate it, then set it down on the table where it will stay. I’m having too much fun to be drunk for this, and I'm already feeling light as it is.

The way Petyr watches people when they talk is a marvel of it own that I could probably study for hours. I’ve watched him enough over the years to pick up on some of his tells and microexpressions, but still never anywhere near enough to be able to guess what he’s really thinking. Now that we’re here, that’s all I want to know— what he’s really thinking.

“Napa is beautiful. I love that place more than life itself. The air is clearer, the sky is bluer, the people actually smile at you! I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else, truly, but sometimes… sometimes Los Angeles just calls to me, you know? I need a fix of it. Besides,” Oberyn grins, finishing his drink, “they don’t really have places like this, do they? The wine is delicious and the bars are fun and fancy… but there’s nothing like the Mockingbird!”

Petyr, Oberyn, and Ellaria all laugh together. There’s something absurd about it.

“It means a lot to hear you say that, Oberyn,” Petyr says congenially, which feels off to me. “I take a lot of pride in what I do.”

“As you should!” Ellaria gushes.

It's entertaining, watching them. They way they converse feels incredibly false, even though I think Oberyn and Ellaria are being completely genuine. Petyr is really just giving them what they want.

“This is your first time here, isn’t it darling?” Ellaria purrs, moving a piece of my hair from my face. A quick glance at him confirms my hopes— it’s a minuscule tell, but I know enough to see that Petyr Baelish clearly does _not_ like her touching me.

“Yes,” I say, shifting and crossing my legs so that I face him, so that I can look at him directly.

“And is it what you expected?” His head tilts sideways at me and, _goddamnit,_ my face gets even hotter. “A fresh perspective can be useful, and I’m always trying to improve. How would you review the Mockingbird, Sansa?” 

He holds our eye contact so easily and lightly— like it’s nothing. I’ve just been struggling to actually comprehend what’s being said to me over the heartbeat in my ears.

I think, letting my eyes wander and a hand drift to my face in thought.

“It’s… the nicest nightclub I’ve ever been in.” I say, because it is. It is the most honest answer I could give. “It’s so unique, everywhere I look there are more details, it’s more beautiful. I can’t imagine all it must have taken to actualize this. You must really love this place to make it so special.”

His eyes soften and he doesn’t answer right away— almost as though I’ve surprised him. I don’t think he was expecting that answer.

“What Petyr ‘loves’ is a good paycheck!” Oberyn hoots good naturedly, pretty drunk now.

“I do love that,” Petyr concedes with a hint of annoyance, just to shut him up. I almost laugh. He hands Oberyn another drink which he accepts immediately. 

“When I bought the Mockingbird it was the remains of a burnt-down apartment building,” he says, speaking to only me now. “Between a laundromat and a closed-down bakery. It’s been a long process, pretty painful at the beginning. I’m very proud of what it’s become.”

It’s so sweet and real that, for a moment, I forget my situation. 

When Ellaria accidentally jostles my elbow, I jump a little and whip around to see her drawing a tiny vial of white powder from her clutch. She notices me looking and smiles.

“I’m going to the ladies room, would you like to join me?”

I can feel Petyr’s eyes on me, even with my head turned in the opposite direction.

“No, thank you, I’m alright,” I answer politely, but I nearly burst into laughter on the spot, disbelieving of everything happening to me. 

Ellaria leaves, and for a moment there’s nothing but a relaxed quiet between Oberyn, Petyr, and I. 

I’m not sure what Oberyn’s doing because I can’t be bothered to look, but Petyr is passing his empty glass back and forth between his hands. 

I watch him. He watches me. He clears his throat.

“I need to check on a couple situations downstairs,” he says, rising from his seat. “Thank you for the drink, Oberyn.” Then to me, “It was very nice to meet you, Sansa. I hope you continue to enjoy yourself.”

_No! No, wait—wait, he can’t leave!_

“Good talk, Petyr!” Oberyn’s few words are slurred. He stands up and goes for an awkward handshake, which Petyr graciously returns. 

Their hands unclasp and Oberyn flops back down on the couch, eyes focused vaguely in the direction of the redhead currently gyrating on the pole. 

“I need to go downstairs, too,” I announce brazenly to my own surprise. I push myself off of the couch. “I have to check on my friends. Thank you, Oberyn. I hope to see you again.”

Is it a lie? An exaggerated truth? Doesn’t matter. I’m impressed that I’m able to form a coherent thought at all while Petyr is looking at me like that, like he’s _waiting_ for me. Like he’s claiming a prize.

Oberyn says something vaguely cheerful and distracted. I touch his arm warmly in farewell as I shuffle past him and into the aisle.

Petyr keeps pace with me as we heads towards the entrance together. Neither of us talk. My eyes flit across the rowdy tables we pass and the girls who move aside for us, eyeing me curiously. Now I’m thinking— what happens when we get downstairs? 

I don’t want to be away from him yet. This panicky need to stay near him is so new and desperate and strange to me that I don't know what to do with it. I know, in this moment, that I’m simply incapable of asking for what I want. With Petyr, it’s all so immediate and fresh that I couldn’t even _name_ what I wanted as I felt it, simply out a lack of words to describe it. 

We reach the door, which Petyr opens for me. I step onto the landing and faithfully wait for him to step out beside me. 

I’m startled at first when I’m met by the redheaded woman with the clipboard, who looks at me with significantly more interest than she did an hour ago.

“Ros, could you find Lacie and ask her to run green-blue?” Petyr asks as he shuts the tier door behind him. She looks a little surprised, but nods.

“Sure thing.” She slips down the stairs, throwing one last look at us over her shoulder before disappearing out of sight and onto the club floor.

And now it’s just us. Muffled melodies come at us both from the dance floor below and from the cracks in the door. The stairwell feel eerily empty. Neither of us make a move towards the stairs.

I ask myself one more time— what’s the boldest thing I could do in this situation?

“You hate Oberyn Martell, don’t you?”

It’s definitely not the boldest thing I could’ve said, but I guess it was the boldest thing I could manage in the moment.

“He’s a good customer.”

I get the strange feeling that he is testing me.

“You’re a good liar.”

“I wasn’t lying.”

“You’re lying by omission,” I counter.

“What were you doing with him and Ellaria Sand?”

“Drinking.”

“You’re lying.”

“What?”

“You’re lying by omission.”

That’s _not_ the same logic and he knows that. 

I notice we’re standing closer than we were a few moments ago. 

“I’m not lying by omission, I gave you a straight answer.”

“It’s not the entire answer, though, is it?”

“If you’re referring to their flirtation, I entertained it but—” He cuts me off.

“Did you know this was my club?”

I’m thrown by this.

“Did you?”

“Well— no, not until I got the hand stamp. I saw your mockingbird symbol.”

He grabs my wrist and looks at the stamp.

“So you knew it was my club once you were inside?”

I nod, heart skipping.

“You knew this was my club, and you let Oberyn Martell drag you upstairs like a lost puppy? Let the woman pet you like one?” The words are deliberate, slow, low.

The insinuation floods through me. My breathing goes shaky. My cheeks burn red. 

“I’m sorry,” the words leave me in a breath. 

“What was that, sweetling?” he asks, his voice coarse. His face is close and over mine now.

“I’m sorry,” I repeat, barely louder than last time, but it seems to satisfy him.

His hand comes up to the side of my face, hovers above my cheek for a lingering moment, then runs itself back through my hair, returns, and repeats the motion.

It’s so soothing that my eyes close instinctively and I let go of a shuddering breath.

“It’s alright,” he says, close to my ear, “it’s alright.” His other arm wraps around my back and a little noise escapes me.

It feels so good that I want to cry. I cling to the feeling. When his hand stops, my heart settles down and I open my eyes to see him looking down at me with an intense and impossible mix of satisfaction and hunger.

“Ros is handling downstairs like I asked her. I’m afraid the work I need to do is upstairs in my office,” he says with a levelness to his voice that directly contradicts the fervor in his eyes. “You’ll be needing to check on your friends, I’m sure they’re missing you.”

“Can I see?” 

Fuck my friends. There’s only Margaery, and she’d tell me to go for it.

“What?”

“Upstairs. Can I come?”

He grins, like he’s surprised at me again. He considers me in a way that reminds me of someone eyeing a child to judge if they’re tall enough to ride a rollercoaster.

“Please, Petyr?” I add softly, because it feels right. I rest my hand on his chest and feel the warmth of his skin through the material of his dress shirt. 

What’s the boldest thing I could do in this situation? 

Ask for what I want. 

“Please?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am really bad at parceling out stuff that I've already written so that is why I've posted like 15k words in 2 days. I'm here to give the people what they didn't ask for and only kind of want!!


	7. a good girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "After all of that... are you going to be a good girl?"
> 
>  
> 
> (We're doing something a little bit different today.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is extremely explicit, you have been warned! I'm earning my "E" today!
> 
> Beyond that, this is my warning about the very strong sexual Daddy Kink component in this chapter as well as the somewhat graphic depictions of pretty rough sex for anyone who'd like to know about that ahead of time in deciding whether or not they want to read it.  
> I know it won't be for everyone, and that's okay :) 
> 
> Enjoy!

7  
Petyr  


“…Please?”

——————————

How does she look so maddeningly innocent even as she says that?

Sansa’s clear, guileless blue eyes flicker hesitantly across my face. Hopeful. Trusting. A hand lays carefully over my heart, fingers slightly spread. She presses down lightly, rooting her place there. I take a deep breath.

“Come on,” I say. I draw my arm out from around her back and take the hand that rests against my chest into my own. “It’s dark, be careful.”

“Okay,” she whispers, and I pull her towards the upward flight.

It really is dark here. Nothing above the second floor is meant for anyone other than essential staff, and we know our way up fine without any harsh fluorescents. I climb slowly so that Sansa can get a comfortable feel for it and be able to follow me.

I’m not sure if it’s from the strain of climbing in the dark or something else, but Sansa’s hand begins to tremble inside of mine. This worries me, so I wrap my hand tighter around hers own in hopes of giving her something steady. I know exactly where the doorknob is, even in the dark, so I reach forward and let the warm light of the third floor spill over us as the door swings open.

It’s strange having someone here who isn’t Ros or Olyvar. I glance behind me to see Sansa curiously surveying the plainest floor of the building with an absent smile. She keeps latched to my hand and follows quietly behind me through the narrow, dimly lit hallway as we pass by rows of filing cabinets and supply closets overflowing with costumes and broken technical equipment.

The door to my office is already ajar. It’s the last room before the hallway ends, so we both end up stopping and standing just outside of it, looking in. Sansa still doesn’t let go of my hand. I turn my head to look at her, very much wanting to know what she’s thinking.

“My office,” I say into the silence.

“You…” she meets my gaze, smiling with shy but genuine delight, “… have a little _balcony_!”

I have to laugh. “Yes, I do. Do you like it?”

“It’s lovely.” She lets go of my hand to fit through the doorway and crosses through the relaxed, functional room to the window. I give her a moment to look, then meet her there. 

“It’s very different from your other office,” she muses. Her features display a certain quiet awe upon seeing this part of my world; it’s a strange and wonderful thing to witness. 

Ambient light from outside dances across Sansa’s face as she stands centered in the window. She seems vaguely mesmerized, eyes glazing across the street below. The combination of neon signs, streetlights, and moonlight filter in through and give her skin a faintly ethereal soft-blue glow. I reach out and carefully push her heavy copper hair away from her face and behind her shoulder, baring fresh skin for the effect to spread across.

Hand still at her face level, I trace the delicate slope of her jaw down towards her mouth with my thumb, stopping just at the corner.

I have her attention now.

I leave it there and let the moment sink further and further into itself until Sansa looks up at me, eyes shining.

“Sansa.” I bring my thumb along her bottom lip.

She barely inclines her head at me in answer, careful to keep her lips still under my thumb.

I feel blood rushing past my ears and think not only of everything tonight, but of earlier today, of the months watching at work, of the years of self-imposed distances and the relentless pull.

“After all of that,” I say under my breath, thinking in particular of Oberyn Martell, skimming my thumb against the smooth texture of her lips. I feel her hanging on every word. “Will you be good now, Sansa?

I sound a little exasperated because I am, and a little forceful because she needs to hear it. Something changes in Sansa’s expression. Her eyes, one moment deep and bright as the ocean, the next drop into a dangerous black-blue. A bruising color. I tilt her head back by with the hand I have holding her jaw, just an inch, just to see them better when I ask her.

“Are you going to be a good girl?”

She shivers nearly imperceptibly, searching my face. Maybe after gaining reassurance that this is real and that I am serious, Sansa stills completely and nods with a dampened desperate look in her eyes.

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes,” she says softly. It feels like ‘ _of course_.’

We stand like that for a charged moment until Sansa takes my forearm in her hands and moves closer.

Her dark doe eyes don’t leave mine, her gaze pressing into me. She takes my thumb into her mouth up to the knuckle and sucks backs slowly, lips perfectly round, tongue sliding like soft, slick velvet— careful, hot, wet. She slows her pace dramatically in the moment before my finger finally slips free, and it’s torturous. I nearly pull my hand back, a little shaken.

I feel uneven. I don’t trust my voice enough to speak. I grab her face with both hands and hold it there in front of me. _She can’t be real._ She’s looking at me expectantly, lips parted. Trying to gain back some control, I purposely leave her here for a moment, watching her chest rise and fall in my peripheral vision. Then I can’t draw out or tease any longer, and I lower my face to hers and take her mouth in mine.

She responds shyly at first, opening her soft mouth to me slightly and placing her hands tentatively against my chest. The way that she kisses is so sweet that the feeling leaves me easing my grip on her face. A torrent of warmth pulses through me for this girl. Sansa is not weak or breakable, but she feels so small and lovely and in my hands that I feel the need to let her be soft and to nurture that in this moment. I draw one of my hands down to her waist and let it settle there firmly.

Sansa seems to like this, because she rises on tiptoe to be closer against me, looping her arms around my neck and adding pressure to the kiss. I stroke her cheekbone soothingly, feeling her growing need for something more both in her quickened breath and her grip on my neck. I tilt her head back further and slip my tongue into her mouth. Sansa’s body softens against mine like putty in response, and an adorable little moan leaves the back of her throat into mine. She meets me there and more, and the kiss deepens into something more wet and lurid.

Her mouth heeds and accepts every push and pull of mine, and every time I pull away a little too far for her liking, she chases me down and catches my mouth in hers again, desperate. One of her hands shifts against my neck and I feel her fingers starting to work into my hair. 

I almost laugh or chide her, but instead I pry my mouth from hers and move down. I drag my lips across her jaw, then kiss slowly and deliberately down her throat, lingering in every place I touch. I can tell she’s worked up, now. Her hands ball into the material of my suit and I can hear and feel her ragged breathing against the back of my neck.

I take the hand I have placed on her waist and let it trace down her hip and leg until it meets the hem of her silver dress. I play with the fabric, grabbing it and playing with the skin underneath.

My mouth meets her collarbone, where I lick the skin and a take a bit into my teeth. I smile when I hear her gasp underneath me. Sansa’s hand reaches under my chin and guides my face back up to meet her. My hand still has a fistful of her dress’s hem, so when I stand up, I’ve got her dress hitched up to her hip. 

I lean back into Sansa, who looks like she’s in a fever dream. She stares back with her dark, wide eyes, and a look of such open trust that it takes me a little by surprise. It makes me pause for a moment. The way she’s looking at me is… it makes me want to pick her up and kiss her into oblivion. It also makes me want to know what she’d look like laid bare and bent over my knee; it makes me want to know what it’d feel like to be inside her.

My grip on the fistful of dress tightens, and I use it to tug her closer to me. She props an arm against my shoulder for stability, and for a moment we just stand there, facing each other, an inch apart, while I filter through a million thoughts at once for what feels like an eternity. 

I consider something… and decide against it.

I finally exhale and give a weak laugh, mostly to myself. I’m going crazy. I need to breathe. None of my mental faculties seem to be firing right. I push back some of the hair from Sansa’s face, unbelieving that this girl in front of me _exists._

“Where did you come from, little one?”

Her eyebrows come together for a beat, then she melts into a smile.

“I’ve been around,” she answers simply, which gets a smile out of me, too.

I let go of her dress and take a few steps backward until I can sit down on the edge of the wide backless sofa behind me. Sansa watches me go with a sad, almost worried look on her face. She follows and stops right in front of me but doesn’t sit down.

“Did I… do something wrong?”

_What?_

“No,” I say immediately, looking up at her imploringly, “No, sweetling. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

She nods but doesn’t meet my eyes. Instead she kicks off her heels towards the corner of the couch as though she’d been waiting to do it for hours. 

Sansa steps forward and nudges her way into the space between my knees and reaches a delicate hand towards my temple. I watch her face as she gently strokes what I know is a patch of silver-white hair, a pensive calm to her features. Hand still raised, her eyes move to meet mine. They’re unsure.

“What is it, Sansa?”

She stays frozen in her position, still just looking at me worriedly.

“Sansa,” I say with a tiny warning tone, and reach up to take her waist.

Once my hands are on her, she reaches forward and grabs my shoulders. I look up, curious, and her mouth slides onto mine. _Oh, sweetling. Were you worried I’d changed my mind about you?_ I think, suddenly feeling guilty about my apparent poor communication. _I like you too much, maybe._

I’m surprised when she brings her right leg onto the couch on one side of me. Realizing what she’s doing, I adjust my grip to help support her as she brings the other leg around so that she’s fully straddling me. The way she’s sitting has her slightly elevated off my lap, but she shifts and wiggles her knees further apart until she sits completely flush against me.

I can’t help myself, I make a low noise into her mouth that’s equal part surprise and arousal at the feeling. I feel Sansa smile under my lips, then run her tongue along my bottom lip the way she must have learned that I like through brief observation. I run my hands down her back against the smooth-scaly texture of the dress, bringing them around her hips and onto the thighs that pin me in place. Sansa deepens our kiss into something straight dirty. Her eager little mouth moves insistently against mine while her tongue flirts within the seam of the kiss, letting me control the pressure and direction. 

I take Sansa’s bottom lip in mine and let it barely scrape against my teeth as it slides back. When she whimpers and grinds down into my lap in response… I briefly see white behind my fucking eyelids.

“Take it off,” I command, grabbing the dress fabric in a fist.

Sansa leans back, eyes foggy like she didn’t quite hear me.

I take her face roughly in one hand, the other still bunched in the damned dress. 

“Take it off, Sansa.” 

I consider something, then decide against it.

Sansa’s fuzzy, lusty expression shifts into something clearer. Within seconds she’s able to shimmy off the dress over her head and throw the silver heap into the corner with her shoes.

And then all that’s left is Sansa Stark atop my lap in a pair of cotton panties.

She looks down at me with her giant blue eyes, slightly swollen lips, and an expression that says, _‘What now, Daddy?’_ Not her words, of course, but I’ll be damned if that’s not exactly what it looks like.

“Come here, sweetling,” I say, and pull her even closer so that I can feel her soft place press directly over my hardened cock. I watch her face as her eyes flutter closed briefly, then open again with a direct heat that destroys any of my capacity for logical thought. Her breasts, small but full-bottomed in a beautiful tear drop shape, have perfect pink nipples that sit pebbled up atop her fullness.

“ _Beautiful_ ,” I murmur, fitting one of her breasts into a gentle hand. “ _Beautiful, beautiful girl, Sansa._ ” I feel her exquisite sigh more than I hear it. The hard nipple underneath my hand drags against my palm, wanting attention.

I take it into my mouth, running my tongue around and across with thick strokes, and I revel in the feel of the soft flesh yielding underneath my mouth. I feel one of her hands ball up against my shoulder, hear a harsh hitch in her breath, and I smile.

“Does it feel nice, sweetling?” I ask, running a hand towards her other breast.

“Mm-hm,” she answers, keeping her eyes and lips pressed close. That won’t do.

I use both hands to bring her face down and kiss her, hard. Rough. She whimpers again, and rolls her hip down to try and find purchase and friction against me. I catch the strangled moan before it leaves me.

I roughly anchor my hands on either side of her hips, gripping tightly, painfully. I pull back from the kiss for a moment so I can watch Sansa’s flushed little face. She looks at me desperately, eyes pouty and confused at the loss of my mouth. I lean in again halfway and grind my pelvis up while pressing Sansa down to hold her hips firmly in place. My cock is rock-hard and _throbbing_ as it finds excruciating friction against the form of Sansa’s little pink cunt, the rubbing motion gathering her cotton panties into her inner folds and soaking them with her arousal. 

I drink in the incoherent look on the her face and the whispered whine in her throat as I roll and press against the softness of Sansa’s cunt again. And again. And again. She starts writhing in my lap, but can’t move at all under my grip. I feel her struggle and become frustrated, kissing me desperately for an outlet, clutching tightly to the lapels of my suit jacket. _It’s okay babygirl._

I let up a bit, still holding her hips but with less pressure. This time when I buck my pelvis, I use my grip to guide her hips in a motion counter to mine. She picks it up easily, and immediately starts grinding against me on her own, sending hot waves of violent pleasure scalding through me.

 _Fuck._ Sansa isn’t stopping. _Fuck._ Just the feeling of her through moving against me through my my pants like this could make me come. I groan almost miserably, dropping my head into her neck and grabbing the backs of her thighs. She grinds harder, little moans dripping out of her lips and into my ear. I can actually feel her wetness soaking through the top layer of my pants, I can feel the thick, damp heat of her grind against my cock over and over as she squirms and whimpers in my lap. I moan frustratedly in a way that sounds like a choke, because my lungs won’t fucking work right while she’s doing this so insistently, so mercilessly. She is going to kill me. _Fuck._

In one swift and determined motion, I pull away from her and yank off my jacket. I see from the corner of my eye that I’ve really got her attention; she stills on top of me to watch as I unbutton the cuffs of my shirtsleeves and roll them to my elbow. When I look up again, Sansa is glowing with a thin sheen of sweat and bright cheeks, the baby hairs around her face have gone all wispy and curly, and she’s smiling curiously at me. I have to breathe mindfully, once in and once out. Her smile widens.

“Am I being a good—”

“Fuck, yes, you’re being a good girl,” I can’t even let her finish asking because I need her mouth on mine again. 

She’s clutching at me and giggling wildly under my tongue, and I roughen up the kiss a little bit to set her straight. I wind my fingers into the hair at the base of her skull and pull; the angle opens her mouth to me further and I make it _carnal_. She slides into total submission, going languid in my arms with a sweet sound, and I’m almost satisfied— almost.

I adjust my positioning so that I have one hand under a thigh and the other around her ribcage. I grind against her again, just for her reaction. She doesn’t disappoint, clenching me between her legs in a spasm and moaning long and low straight into my mouth.

_Good girl, Sansa._

I lift her up slightly, hovering just above my lap, then sort of throw her onto the couch beside me in one semi-graceful move before she knows what’s happening. She’s giggling again, on her back but propping herself up on her elbows to look at me.

“Wow,” she says lightly, but her eyes are dark with anticipation and her pulse drums visibly in her throat. I come to her side and tap her elbow back. She understands, and lowers herself back down flat on the couch, now very quiet.

Unrushed, I lower my forearm next to her face and lean my weight on it so that I hover over her, or her face at least. A curly tendril of hair that lays against her forehead catches my attention, and I reach out to wrap it around my index finger before letting go. Her eyes follow me, huge and wanting. 

I wipe a tiny smudge of mascara from her cheekbone. I trace a finger down her nose and across her cupid’s bow. I feel her breath against my finger. 

I consider something, then decide against it.

My hand leaves her face, runs down her front, and settles on the edge of her panties. I bring my fingers to where her clit is underneath the fabric and find it completely soaked through. I press in light circles, watching Sansa’s face as I do. Her expression is soft and pleading, and when I increase the pressure, she shuts her eyes and starts to squirm. I smile and work faster, planting kisses on her face and neck as she starts to make noise.

I’m getting tired of the panties. “These come off, sweetling.”

“Okay,” she whimpers, lifting up so I can easily tug the underwear away. “Um— are you— are we…?”

I smile and slide my middle finger into her, slow and steady. Feeling the hot slickness taking in my finger makes my cock throb almost painfully. _Fucking hells._

“What was that, sweetling?” I bring my finger out, then slip in two.

“Are we gonna—” She’s cut off by her own moan as my fingers sink to the knuckle. She tries to catch her breath, but moans again as I pull them out again. Her voice is much higher-pitched when she continues. “I mean, will you—? I mean, I’d like…”

I give her time to finish her thought this time, but she doesn’t, so I begin to pump my fingers in and out of her slowly, repeatedly. It works her up quite a bit very easily— her moans become whiny and desperate, and she grabs the wrist I’m leaning on with one hand and covers her face with the other, biting down one of her fingers. I use my thumb on her clit in conjunction with the fingers, which I curl ever so slightly inside her as I bury them into her with quicker, more forceful pumps. Her hips start bucking in tiny motions under me and a long, high-pitched cry vibrates in her throat without fully leaving her.

“If you’d like to know something, I’ll tell you, Sansa. You just have to ask.” I tell her softly. I keep it up, though, working her the best I know how, watching her face closely. She’s quivering against the couch, clutching to the edge and to my wrist. She is completely bare and utterly beautiful.

Sansa whines aloud, completely out of control. She gives a short, almost sweet, aching sob against my arm that’s propped up beside her. My cock is throbbing painfully again, but seeing her laid out like this squirming under just my hand is so incredibly worth it. _“Petyr, please, I—fuck, fuck, fuck— are you gonna—will you—please— fuck me please—?”_

Something low in my gut twists in a deliciously sick way. Hearing Sansa ask for me sends a thrumming dark pulse through me so I say, “Yes, sweetling, I’ll—”

_“—Like now, please—?”_

Another time I might’ve laughed or teased her for being needy, but all I can genuinely manage now is to try to keep my composure. It doesn’t seem to be working. After hearing that, after seeing that— something takes over. I take my fingers from her cunt.

“Open,” I hear myself say, and my voice is coaxing but also black and bottomless all at once. 

Sansa collects herself for half a moment, and I say it again—lower, more clearly.

“Open, Sansa.” 

She hears me and she hears my tone and opens her mouth obediently. She didn’t come on my fingers, but the slick liquid on them is still her arousal and there’s a lot of it. I slide my the two fingers into her mouth and press them down against her tongue. Her blue eyes fix on me and she does what I don’t need to ask unquestioningly, wrapping her lips around my fingers. She keeps them wrapped nice and tight as I slowly pull my fingers up and out of her mouth, inch by inch, eyes locked on mine the whole way. _I need to fuck her so badly._ I’m about to pull my hand away, when she catches it and brings it back to her mouth. I watch as Sansa’s little pink tongue obscene licks at the crevice between my the fingers, being thorough and getting every last drop that I gave to her. 

“Good girl,” I say, voice thick. Then, leaning in to stroke her hair, “Such a good girl.”

“Yeah?” It’s a whisper. It’s hopeful. Her eyes are serious. _Good._ I didn’t really know where she stood on that earlier— she liked it, I thought, but maybe as one-time thing. But no. Right now Sansa is looking at me like my word is god. Like she’d believe anything I say or do anything I asked. I don’t know what I did to deserve that, but I want to. I want to deserve it.

“Yes, sweetling,” I confirm, “so good,” and kiss her deep and slow.

She keeps her mouth pliable for me as I move it against it and push inside, plunging and skimming and breathing into her. All the while, a low whine vibrates in the back of her throat and it only stokes my need— I consider something, then, but decide against it. 

When I pull away from Sansa, I see her her eyes— both heavy and wide, sweet and raw, watchful and trusting. She waits with her lips parted, her mouth wet and messy from the kiss. She stares up at me through her eyelashes, trying to read my face.

And… I consider something again. I reach down and gently brush my knuckles against her cheek and figure… I figure I can always backpedal. So I follow my gut and just say it.

“Will you unbuckle Daddy’s belt, sweetling?”

She barely reacts. She wasn’t expecting it, judging by the small flash of surprise across her face. I mean, why would she? But she doesn’t show any sign of disgust or anything, either. Her reaction seems carefully neutral from my angle— if anything, neutral and curious. I can tell she’s working through something in her head, though, because I recognize the expression from the office. But it barely takes any time at all, because soon she’s smiling at me, and I remember to breathe.

“Y……yes, Daddy,” she says— it’s barely audible, but I hear it and I hear the thin layer of arousal around the words and I realize… she’s _into_ it. She said it quietly, but something tells me that was out of shyness. I have a feeling this concept is not new to her. I have a feeling she is glad that I said it, judging by the look on her face.

I stand on my knees and Sansa sits up and then back on her heels, her hands immediately finding my belt buckle. I watch her work it off little by little as I unbutton the dress shirt I’m wearing, drawing sick pleasure from the sight of her below me, her hands working against the clasp. She gets it all the way undone and looks up at me for what to do next. My belt is unbuckled, now, but still remains in its loops. Practically, I could leave it there, but I decide to pull it all the way out for pure effect. I go slow, feeling Sansa’s eyes watch me closely as I do. I don’t plan on corporal punishment tonight, but I’d be lying if I said my brain wasn’t on fire with ideas for the future. I toss the belt aside.

“Give me your hand,” I tell Sansa, and she complies, palm up. I take it and press it up against the bulge of my cock through my pants, which for me has been hard and throbbing for what feels like hours. The pressure of her hand there only makes it worse, but I need her to feel. “You did this, sweetling. Are you sure you want it?”

I let go of her hand, but it stays put. Instead of pressing down, she uses her fingertips to trace the outline carefully, curiously. I can’t take it anymore.

“Sansa, do you want it?”

She nods, then, perhaps remembering my penchant for word-using, answers “Yes.”

“Good,” I practically growl, and kiss her hard on the mouth. I’m done playing. She makes a guttural noise in the back of her throat, and snakes a hand down to my pants again. I feel her fingers fumbling with the button.

“I’ll do it.” I don’t mean to be gruff, but I am about to die if I don’t have this woman. My lower body is free of clothes in seconds, and Sansa is waiting and watching patiently, idly running a hand across her chest.

I take myself in my my hand and stroke a few times.

“Always tell me if you don’t like something, okay sweetling?”

“Okay, Daddy.”

 _Fuck—_ I barely hold back an animalistic noise at hearing her say that; I close my eyes briefly to gain some semblance of composure.

“Don’t be shy,” I say when I see her tentatively reaching for me. She wraps one hand around the base of my cock and I groan. She uses long and careful strokes while checking up at me to see if she’s doing okay. I try to be encouraging, but her smooth warm hands feel so good that I don’t know if I could properly speak if I wanted to. I’m looking up at the ceiling for just a second when I feel something hot and wet envelop the head of my cock. My entire body reacts.

 _“Holy fuck,”_ I can’t stop from blurting. I look down see Sansa with her mouth around my cock, still stroking the base of me gently with expert pressure. “Sansa…” I start, meaning to tell her that she doesn’t have to, but can’t finish the thought because that’s when she slides down and takes me all the way in to the back of her throat. _Holy fucking shit, may the Mother have mercy on me._

I realize that I’m losing it a little bit, that Sansa is tearing apart my usual control. 

She spits on my cock and takes me in again, glancing up at me sweetly with those big blue eyes. It’s wet and sloppy and messy and Sansa is using both her mouth and her hand to work my cock, focused and freakishly effective. The next time she goes all the way down, I grab a fistful of her hair, close my eyes, and feel my cock hit the back of her throat. I hold her head there for a moment, listening to her gurgle on her own spit as her throat starts to spasm around me. I let her go, and Sansa gasps, spit and drool slathered around her mouth and chin, some even dripping down lewdly onto her chest.

“Daddy loves it when you choke on his cock, sweetling, you’re doing so good,” I groan appreciatively all in one gush, wanting all of her. “Look at me while you suck my cock, baby. Look at Daddy. Daddy wants to see your pretty blue eyes water up.”

 _I’m losing my goddamn mind… but she’s smiling like she’s enjoying taking it from me._ I don’t even have the time or brain space in this moment to worry about whether I’m pushing her too far with the daddy talk because all I am capable of caring about is the texture of the inside of her pretty mouth.

“Okay, Daddy,” Sansa says softly. She strokes me with a hand while licking my head with innocent little flicks of her tongue. Then she takes my cock into her mouth again, lolling her tongue around sloppily. I place a hand around the back of her head and watch her go down— she never once looks away from me as she takes me as far down as she can, struggling for a moment. I cradle her head in both hands and thrust my cock a couple inches further down her throat until I reach an even tighter, hotter place that feel so fucking good that it’s almost impossible to stay still in the position. 

“Relax your jaw, babygirl,” I order against a groan as she squirms against me, gurgling and whining around my cock, her eyes welling up with a thin layer of unshed tears. I hold myself there for another second in the perfect warm wetness, watching her pretty little face take my cock so well with those big shining blue eyes, and then I finally let up. _Fuck._ She splutters and wipes the back of her hand against her mouth, taking a few big breaths before smiling at me like a delighted little nymphomaniac. 

“Good girl,” I say, meaning more than I’ve ever meant it before. “You feel so fucking good, sweetling, Daddy loves that, you’re such a good girl,” I rasp at her, trying to keep my eyes from rolling in the back of my head when she immediately goes back down and sucks lightly on the head of my cock and stroking. All of the sudden, I know we need to stop or else I will cum right here, probably right in Sansa’s mouth.

“Turn around, Sansa,” I say with as much command as I can in this weakened state that she’s put me in. Thankfully Sansa does as she’s told.

She sits back on her feet with her back to me, and I take a moment to cool the hell down. I push Sansa forward onto her hands and nudge her knees apart until her cunt is open to me.

I take the same two fingers as before and slowly roll them in circles against her, even though she is already wet. I don’t work her like this for long— just enough to get her a little riled up, enough for her hips to start moving back against me.

“Do you want Daddy’s cock, Sansa?”

“Yes,” she whines. I pick up the intensity.

“Have you thought about him?” I ask, both for arousal purposes and because I’m curious to know. “Do you think about Daddy touching you, hm? At work? Home?”

 _“Yes,”_ she answers immediately, still whining, only able to think about the question long enough to answer it, _“I have, yes, I do, Daddy please—”_

A satisfaction flares in me as I find her entrance with the head of my cock. “Daddy thinks about you, too.”

I push into her with considerable force from behind, but it still happens slow and burning. A rough, loud groan comes out from somewhere deep inside me as I feel her hot, impossibly tight cunt wrap around me, yielding only enough to allow me to fit until I’m buried as deep as I can go, bending over Sansa to fit as much of myself as possible. 

“Fuck, sweetling, you feel so good,” I groan, wrapping my arms around her as leverage to slide my cock back and slam savagely forward again. Sansa’s moan in response to this is so different from anything what I’ve heard from her thus far that I stop.

“Are you okay, sweet?”

“Yeah,” she whispers, and I realize her legs are shaking slightly. In a voice just as soft and small she says, “Please keep going, Daddy.”

A chill goes over me. And I keep going. I slam in and out of her, starting firm and snapping, but soon shifting into something deeper, into rough and brutally-paced. A low mewling sound streams from Sansa, continuous and stuttering as my thrusts jolt her body forward in jerks. She almost sounds like she’s actually crying, but I know that she’s not, that it just means that she’s in a certain place— an intense place. Her cunt feels so fucking good that all I can do for a full minute is close my eyes and just pound into it again and again and again as hard as I fucking can.

Sansa moans louder than I’ve ever heard her even speak, a word I can’t decipher stretched out and up until it ends it an actual little scream. A statement? A moan? A question? Whatever it is, it is dripping wet and lurid.

“ _Please please please please,_ ” she runs under her breath, but her face is falling out of something desperately, falling from her face instead of rising or growing.

I think I know what she needs. I pull out of her and roughly flip her onto her back, adjusting her legs to spread to either side of me. I reach behind me for the one small pillow on the couch and wedge it under her hips so that they’re more elevated than her head. Sansa was so far gone a minute ago that the loss of sensation has sent her reeling. She’s moaning incoherently, but is still halfway watching me. 

I grab a leg as leverage, find her entrance, and then roughly push inside, feeling her tight cunt stretch around me again. We both groan at the same time at the same low pitch. I cannot contain my reaction to the ecstasy that is the sensation of sinking my cock to fully into Sansa’s tight little cunt. Sansa moans, too, and when she looks at me, I grab her other leg for more leverage and slam forward. Her eyes roll back a bit. The angle her hips are at allow for the deepest penetration, and I take advantage. 

I bury my cock into her over and over in ruthless thrusts at any angle that, if I’m right, should be hitting a good spot. For lack of a better word, I fuck her. Hard. I fuck her she loses control of her speech. I pound Sansa down into the couch until her eyes roll all the way back. I fuck her until she’s writhing, moaning, whining, and eventually begging. I bring a hand to her neck, lending slight pressure around it— not in a violent way, but as a silent gesture of control.

“Please, Daddy,” she whines, “please, please I’m—!” 

“Come for me, sweetling,” I rasp, my voice uneven as I ram into her cunt harder and faster. I increase the pressure around her neck slightly. Her eyes roll back again. “It’s okay, sweetling, you can come on Daddy’s cock— Daddy wants to feel you, babygirl.”

As if they were the magic words, Sansa comes apart under me, shuddering violently and gasping, her cunt clenching around me in tight little pulses, her back arching at a sharp angle, and her eyes rolling around and then back into place. Then all she can do is catch her breath. The extra tightness around my cock combined with the sight of my little girl coming on her Daddy’s cock so beautifully has me riding the very edge. I continue pumping into Sansa because I can, and to give Sansa a moment to recover from her orgasm. Then I pull out because I have to, because I want to come somewhere specific.

“Can Daddy come in your mouth, babygirl?” My voice is rough and strained in my own ears.

“Yes, Daddy, please come in my mouth,” Sansa begs in a voice that almost completely fucking ends me then and there, not missing a beat— completely ready and committed despite probably still recovering from the powerful orgasm she just had.

“That’s my girl,” I murmur affectionately as I move forward and hover over Sansa’s flushed-pink radiant face while pumping myself with one hand. She looks expectant and opens her mouth for me, wide and eager. I aim the head of my cock over her face and let the sight of my little girl laid bare, blushing everywhere, and waiting patiently to take my cum into her soft pink mouth push me all the way over the edge.

“Fuck,” I groan, and come _hard_ into Sansa’s perfect little mouth. I see full on white behind my eyelids as my cock pulses violently with the overpowering orgasm, and I groan louder, unable to restrain it, as I feel myself shoot ropes of cum onto her velvety pink tongue— just more and more and more. 

“Good girl,” I groan in a broken voice as I watch a thick pulse of cum shoot into Sansa’s sweet little mouth, but the next pulse hits and I literally couldn’t keep my eyes open if I tried. “Good girl, sweetling.” It comes out as a pant. I can’t see but I’m able to feel her hot breath around the tip of my cock as I continue to come, sending a shiver up my spine.

When I’m able to open my eyes, I look down and see my perfect princess with an alarmingly large mouthful of my cum.

“Oh, Sansa, sweetling,” I breathe, “Daddy is so proud of you.”

I wipe a little glob of cum from head of my cock onto her plump pink lips. She takes my head between her lips and sucks lightly on it, not leaving anything behind. 

“There you go, sweetling,” I sigh, still reeling, “good girl.”

Sansa’s eyes pin me with a look of pure innocence and utter reverence as she licks her bottom lip, closes her mouth, and swallows my entire load.

If I hadn’t just come two seconds ago, I’d be so fucking hard right now. My cock twitches as it is.

“ _Fuck_ , Sansa. You’ve been such a good girl, sweetling.” I brush the hair back from her face and kiss along her hairline. “So good.” I run my hands down her sides in a soothing fashion, placing chaste kisses to each of her eyebrows, her nose, and then her mouth. She makes a tired, contented noise and she slouches against my chest completely. She stays there, looking up at me occasionally with alternating microexpressions— happy to pouty, pouty to sad, sad to content, content to attention-seeking, attention-seeking to tired, and tired back to happy again. 

We stay like that for a while on the couch. I lightly finger comb Sansa’s tangled hair, and Sansa stays curled up against me with her head resting against my chest, right over my heart. I feel both our heartbeats returning to their normal pace. We stay like that for so long that I almost start to think she’s fallen asleep— but she hasn’t.

Sansa eventually sits up and clears her throat. She doesn’t say anything, but she does walk the few steps over to her dress that was thrown to the floor, which she slips on. I pull my pants back on. She picks up her shoes and sits back beside me.

“So, uh, Monday?” she asks.

I laugh a true laugh— the kind that makes you bend over a little, something that hasn’t happened to me in forever.

“You want nothing to do with me? That’s it, Monday?”

“No!” she exclaims, eyes wide, “No, I just thought that you, you know, are… important, and I’m— I’m— you know, and it’s okay to just want this to be like a weird thing that happened—”

“I don’t want that. It’s not a weird thing. And I know you already have my number and I already have yours. So please use it.”

“Use it?”

“My telephone number.”

“Oh.” Silence.

“Sansa, I am not letting you go,” I say frankly, because she seems to need to hear it. Her face softens from concern and confusion to hope and confusion.

“By the way, I made plans for you to accompany me to San Fransisco for the ILM meeting. We fly Tuesday, come back early Friday.” I might as well tell her.

“Sorry, what?”

“You said you weren’t being involved in any projects or let in on any real information. I thought that was dumb, seeing how you understand film and human nature better than the people who go to every cursed meeting.”

“Oh.”

“Before tonight, Sansa, I decided I was going to…” _Groom you? Take you under my wing? Train you? Apprentice you?_ “…train you as my personal assistant—”

“—I thought I was already your assistant.”

“Well, you are, but you work for the company, for the office— not specifically for me.”

“Oh. Yeah, you’re right.”

“Right, so I was thinking if you became my personal assistant, I could mentor you. You’d be working for me, but you’d also be training under me. Does that make sense?”

“Why?”

 _Sansa, come on._ Fine, she needs to understand anyway.

“I’ll be honest with you, so that maybe you’ll believe me. There are multiple reasons for this, one being that I need more people around me that I trust. There are a lot of people willing to be my assistant, but I don’t know any of them. There are also very few people that I trust to begin with, which makes having people around to help me run things difficult to sort out. I run a lot of stuff, Sansa, I need the help.”

She nods like she’s following.

“Secondly, I genuinely think you would do a better job than a lot of the schmucks at Lannisport with fancy titles who call all the shots, and I want to put you at the table with them. Even as an assistant, you can just observe how it all works. You’ll need to know the terrain. Besides, sometimes when they’re really struggling with something they’ll listen to anyone in the room with a solution. You say the right thing, you help the company and you get the recognition— something valuable in this city. A name that rings a bell always trumps the one that doesn’t.”

She’s really listening now.

“Thirdly, I think I could teach you some things. Things about business, things about people, things about power. One day when you run your own show, it’ll be nice to have an ally in the business who thinks like me. I didn’t end up in a position of power by accident, Sansa. I can teach you how it all works. I say that because I can tell you have the right mind to learn it. Not everybody can, not everybody is wired the right way.”

I take a breath and smile, because—

“Fourthly, I enjoy your company.”

“Those are some great points,” she nods, and I can’t tell if she’s joking somehow. “Very well thought out. So… I’d basically shadow you everywhere? And observe? As well as do assistant things. And listen to your lessons. And— what was the first one? Oh, yeah, and be trustworthy.”

“You’ve got it.”

“Hmmm… I say yes.”

“That was easy.”

“You made a good case. Last point especially, very compelling.”

I laugh again and wonder what’s wrong with me. I want to kiss her but everything feels different now. So I ask.

“Can I kiss you?”

Her cheeks flush red over the idea of a kiss, which is hilarious when you consider everything that just happened minutes ago. She nods, though.

I press a very normal, short kiss to her lips. When I pull back, she is still blushing and I can’t believe—

A loud telephone ringtone echoes through the room.

“Oh shit,” Sansa mumbles, finding her purse that she dropped on the way in and wiggling an iPhone out of the tightly-crammed contents.

“Hey, Marg,” Sansa answers ultra casually. “Yeah, I’m here…..Oh— well, I’m, ah, upstairs. Can you believe there’s a strip club up here? I know! Oh, I just, uh, you know, met a guy. Where are you now? Really? Okay, I can meet you there in three minutes. Okay, yeah, I know— don’t move, I’ll be there. Marg, I’m serious, don’t go with him. Do. Not. Go. With. Him. Remember last time? Margaery, please just stay there. Okay. Okay. Thank you. Bye.”

She hangs up the phone and looks at me. “I have to go, Margaery is too drunk.”

There’s a moment of quiet, then she steps up to me and kisses me on the cheek, then again haltingly the lips. Again, she is pink in the face when she steps back and it’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen.

“I’ll walk down with you,” I say, quickly buttoning my shirt, throwing on my shoes, then shrugging on my suit jacket. I walk with her, leaving the third floor door open for light as we descend the stairs all the way to the ground floor. Music is still playing, but most people are starting to trickle off the dance floor out front to catch a ride home. 

A brunette I recognize as Margaery Tyrell stands against a pillar with her arms crossed in front of her, swaying very slightly. Sansa sees me see her too and makes a frustrated ‘I don’t know’ gesture with her hands. Her hand grabs mine and squeezes once, and then she’s walking away. I linger further back in the crowd as the two girls make their difficult, drunk way outside and towards the Uber pick up/drop off. I follow a ways behind them outside, too, and I don’t leave until I see them climb into a blue Jeep and see it drive away.

Then Sansa Stark is really gone, and I am both incredibly happy and intolerably sad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I live in the sin bin, but this is my first time in the smut hut! It's warm in here and I'm not sure how I arrived!
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you to those who've been commenting such nice and encouraging things!


	8. caving in

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I realize, then, with a sinking feeling that I’ve become hopelessly attached to Petyr Baelish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for this chapter for discussion of attraction between an adult/a minor.
> 
> (I'd just always rather be too thorough with my warnings than not enough.) Enjoy!

 

8  
Sansa

We’re halfway home and Margaery is still on a tirade, slightly less drunk than when I found her but still drunk enough not to know when a topic has been beaten to death.

“Loras _knows_ I have a thing for him and he didn’t even tell me he was invited, he didn’t even tell me about it when we fucking got there! Like, it wouldn’t have been that hard, just a sentence! A sentence— _‘Oh, hey Marg, that guy I know you’re obsessed with is coming’_ would have made a fucking difference, okay? Then maybe I wouldn’t have made a total fucking idiot out of myself! Fuck!”

“Marg, I’m sure you were fine, you’re better at these things than you give yourself credit for."

“It was horrible, Sans. I’m going to die. You _know_ I like to be prepared when it comes my conquests. I can get anyone I want, but I need to fucking know about it first!”

I snort. It’s true. Margaery could flirt herself into the arms of anyone she wanted, into any place she wanted to go. I’ve seen it. It’s almost scary.

“I’m serious!” she whines.

“I know you’re serious, and I agree with you,” I reassure her, “but he was probably drunk, too. It’s not over. And— wait, sorry, who’s this guy again?”

“Ugh! The guy, you know, the guy! Trystane, the actor! We met him with Myrcella, Trystane Martell!”

I cough to cover up the surprised noise that comes out of me.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I wheeze. Martell?! I have a million questions, especially as to why both he and his uncle would be at the same club on the same night, but I figure I should keep those to myself. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Margaery faces me, about to continue complaining when she meets my eyes and the expression on her face wipes itself clean in a millisecond.

“Holy shit,” she says, pauses, cocks her head at me, and then, “you had _sex!_ ”

“Uh— what?” I feel my face flare up.

“Seven hells! That’s why you left, isn’t it?”

“No, Marg, I don’t—” I start, prepared to deny it. I have no practical reason to keep this from Margaery, I guess. She’s the person I’m closest to in this world and she’d never judge me, I know it. It’s just a knee-jerk reaction for me to want to keep this secret— I mean, I’ve barely processed it myself and we’re sitting in a stranger’s car and—

“Who? _Who?!_ ”

“Marg—”

“Gods help me, Sansa Stark, you will tell me WHO—”

“What even makes you think that in the first place?”

Margaery crosses her arms. “Sansa, literally all of your lipstick is gone. Your matte, 24-hour, smudge-proof lipstick. It's basically a tattoo. All of it. Is gone.”

 _Well shit. I have nothing for that._ I feel the corners of my mouth twitch.

“I could’ve been making out with someone.”

She ignores me. “You look like you just ran a mile. Your hair looks like you’ve stuck your head out the car window.”

“I could’ve been dancing!”

She ignores me again. “Sansa.” Her look says _‘don’t try me, bitch.’_ An eyebrow lifts.

There’s a long pause where she stares at me like a mother waiting for a confession from her teen and I try to pretend like it isn’t causing me panic. But really… what’s bad about telling Margaery, anyway? I already admitted that there isn’t really a reason not to tell her, at least not past my own anxiety in this moment. I would feel horrible keeping this in the dark forever for no good reason, right?

More silence. I sigh.

“Yeah, okay.”

As soon as I say it I feel a weight fall from my shoulders. Of course I want to tell my best friend about my crazy life— I don’t want to navigate this alone, I want someone to bear witness to it with me! I need someone to talk to.

Margaery grins and claps her hands together a couple times. “So? Who was it? What happened?”

I laugh nervously. _Just tell her, just do it._ “It was… Petyr? Petyr Baelish.”

She blinks at me with a blank expression. I realize she never saw him tonight, that this probably makes no sense to her.

“Petyr Baelish,” I clarify, “From… my work.” I don’t even know what he is ‘from’ to me, but I know that Margaery knows I work for him, so that’s what I use to help her out.

Her expression remains frozen in place for another long moment until I watch the name recognition dawn on her. She stays blank at first, checking my face as if thinking that maybe I misspoke; her scrutiny forces me to look away, blushing. I guess something about this makes her believe me because she breaks into a slow, incredulous grin.

The dead silence is making my insides squirm in a not-fun way.

“No fucking way.”

“This is just between us for now, obviously, yeah?”

Margaery nods in earnest. “Yeah, yeah, duh, of course. But— Gods, Sansa.” She is looking at me like she doesn’t recognize me, like she’s reevaluating everything she’s ever thought about me.

“He’s your boss,” she states in a hush. I nod. “And he’s… he _owns_ that place, right?” She gestures vaguely behind us. I nod. “How old is he? Holy shit.”

“Yeah, he does,” I say, because that’s all I can think to say and I also realize that I don’t actually know how old he is, exactly. Around my parents’ age, I guess.

She laughs darkly. “Damn, Sansa.”

“Yeah. Caught up now?”

She stares at me in silence. Then, “I have so many questions. So many.”

“I’d be surprised if you didn’t.”

“When we get home we’re ordering Chinese, smoking that tiny half-joint we have left, and you’re going to answer all of them.”

I laugh. “I’m starving, sounds good to me.”

“But I mean, okay, I have to know…how was it?” she asks, leaning in and dropping her voice, eyes intent. She is truly just unable to control the drama. I try to think of an honest answer and…

… and I just start giggling. Uncontrollably. I’m giggling because I can’t believe any of it. Because I can’t believe that tonight happened. I can’t believe that Petyr… I can’t believe that he _likes_ me. I can’t believe how much I like him. I can’t believe the things we did… and I can’t believe how much I _liked_ them. I can’t believe everything that has led to how fucking amazing I feel right now. I feel like I could float. I could float because of how inhumanly happy I am in this moment. Margaery joins in laughing, too.

“That good, huh?”

I can only laugh harder— I laugh until my abs start to hurt and I have to wipe a tear from my cheek, until finally I’m able to breathe.

“Yeah. Yeah, that good.”

Margaery, watching my reaction, beams at me with real happiness. “Wow. Jealous.”

I’m reminded of how much I love Margaery. The girl is dramatic and loud and needy, but she cares deeply and genuinely. She will always drop her own baggage in a heartbeat to sit, cry, or laugh with me when I need it. I smile at her, remembering something that almost sends me into another fit.

“Yeah, and um, I might actually know a guy who can maybe help with the Trystane situation, too.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Yeah, I know his uncle now." I nod, organizing my thoughts. "Earlier tonight he hit on me, bought me a drink, took me to the secret strip club on the second floor, got me drunk, offered to buy me a lap dance with a girl of my choosing, and introduced me to an incredibly attractive woman who touched me a lot and made me realize it was a three-way situation. So yeah, we’re tight.”

After a moment of either shocked or appreciative silence, “Well fuck, you had all the fun tonight, didn’t you?”

“I really did.”

“I want to go up there. You better make that happen.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Were the girls naked and everything?”

I laugh. “That’s your first question?”

“Sansa, you know I love titties.”

I see the Uber driver flick his eyes towards us through the rearview mirror.

“Sorry, she’s drunk,” I say, even though I’m not sorry and I know this guy is enjoying the show.

“No, WE’RE drunk,” Margaery corrects loudly, “and I love titties even when I’m sober, so you can write THAT down.”

“No one’s writing anything down, Marg, but yes, most of them were topless.”

“Nice.”

We both notice our apartment building approaching and start to gather our stuff.

“Thank you so much,” I say to the driver as he slows along the curb.

“No problem,” he answers me, then addresses Marg sociably, “By the way, I love titties, too. So we have that in common.”

“Yes! Awesome! Thank you!” she looks at me emphatically, like I had been oppressing her right to love titties. I shrug, just letting her have it.

“Yeah, totally cool,” the driver continues, “Hey, do you guys smoke weed?”

“Yes,” Margaery answers immediately, clutching the seat back in front of her.

“‘Cause I sell if you need any,” he says with a genuine, helpful smile.

“Really? Yeah!” Marg looks at me meaningfully, though I can’t decipher her meaning, “That’s so perfect, we’re almost out!”

Margaery is always befriending people everywhere we go. I suddenly feel tired. She mouths something at me, but I can’t tell what it is.

The driver parks and ends the fare, turning around in his seat. My app dings and I quickly rate five stars and tip.

“Yeah, I heard something about a half-joint,” he confesses, “Figured I’d ask.”

“That’s so sweet,” she tells him, voice dripping, and glances at me again. Then I understand what she was mouthing at me— _‘He’s cute!’_ Ah. I see.

“All I have on me right now are some pre-rolls, a couple eighths of a hybrid, some shake, and…” He squints his eyes, thinking hard. “… and some wax. My full inventory is at home, sorry— didn’t expect I’d need it tonight.” He actually sounds genuinely bummed out about it. Who is this guy and why is he so nice?

“No, don’t worry! We don’t need much at all, right, Sansa?”

“Uh, yeah, we’re not picky,” I say, even though I kind of am. I have a very low tolerance and get trapped in my own hellish thought prisons if I smoke the wrong strain. I'm not worried, though, because I rarely smoke anyway— not half as much as Margaery does.

“What would you recommend, …?” she reaches for his name.

“Pod,” he offers, smiling.

“Margaery,” she smiles back.

“Well, Margaery, the hybrid is my personal favorite right now, and a little goes a long way with it. It’s good for stress.”

“That sounds perfect!” Marg exclaims, and Pod rummages through his backpack on the passenger seat.

“Here,” he offers Marg a small green plastic pop-lid canister, “it’s about an eighth. It’s on me. I hope you like it.”

If this were any other man on Earth I would be terribly on edge right now. But this Pod guy, to his core, just seems like he wants to do something nice. He’s got kind eyes and an easy smile that make me weirdly fine with everything happening right now.

“No,” Marg protests, “No, really, it’s okay, I’m going to pay. How much do I owe you?”

“You don’t owe me anything. Really! Your guys’ ride made my night, you were very entertaining—” _Knew it._ “—and this really isn’t that much at all. Please, take it! I want you to take it.”

Margaery searches his face, then finally slowly takes the canister from him.

“Do you have a number? I mean, can I have your number?” she asks, actually blushing a little. Wow. That’s rare. “You know, for if I want to actually buy from you in the future?”

“Yeah, totally!”

“I’m going to stretch my legs,” I say curtly, and get out of the car before anyone can stop me.

Margaery finally follows suit, saying goodbye to Pod, and meets me at the door to the building.

She turns to me in the elevator, waggling the canister, and says, “Well, at least something good happened for me tonight."

“You think he was into you?”

“Don’t know, honestly. I think he might always be that nice.”

“Hm.”

“So how did you wind up fucking the studio executive?”

“Wha—! It wasn’t like that.”

“It wasn’t?”

“Well—”

“Cause that’s exactly how you said it was. So how’d it happen?”

 _Seven hells, Margaery._ She can be so crude. I quickly get over it. “Well, okay. So I'm upstairs with Oberyn and that woman I was telling you about, right? We're just talking—”

The elevator door opens and something catches my eye— the form of someone balled up on the floor, lifting their head at the sight of us. _Is that—?_

_“Arya?”_

“Thank the gods!” she wails. “I'm locked out.”

“Why didn’t you go downstairs and ask Jory to let you in?” I approach and notice that she's got her t-shirt pulled over her knees. She glares up at me.

“I’m not wearing pants.”

Margaery laughs. I pull my keys out of my purse, one of which is a spare for Arya’s apartment. I twist open the lock.

“How long have you been sitting here? And why—” I ask.

“Too long,” she answers, which I should’ve expected. “And I’m not wearing pants because I was only quickly running to the chute. Nymeria moved the damn door wedge.”

Margaery laughs again. Arya scowls at her.

“This is the second time this month you’ve gotten locked out, you have to be more careful.”

“Yeah, okay, I know, thanks,” she springs up and grabs the door to rush inside, but I hold it in place.

“Arya, seriously. The only reason Mom and Dad let you live here alone is because I’m here, too. If every time I leave for a few hours, I come back to find you naked and shivering in a hallway, I’m gonna tell them you need to go back home.”

“You _wouldn’t.”_

She’s right, I wouldn’t but I press on, “I _would._ I don’t want to baby you, but…” I gesture to her bare legs, “…first you have to stop making me.”

I hold back laughter, because I know Arya is completely fine but the pure rage on her face is incredibly satisfying. She can probably handle herself better out in the world than I can, and I know she is fine to live on her own at her young age like I did, even if it’s an unusual thing outside of our family. I just like pressing my seniority when I get the chance, because I don’t often get the chance anymore.

“Fuck you,” she says, slipping inside. She picks up her cat and gives me the finger. “Have a good night!”

She tugs the door closed behind her.

“You’re welcome!” Margaery calls just before it slams. “I can’t believe your parents let you guys live like this.”

Technically both Arya and I, on paper, live with our parents in our childhood home. They travel a lot and this just works out better. Dad always believed in raising us to be independent and self-sufficient. He raised us antithetical to the idea of the spoiled rich Beverly Hills kid. He pushed me to graduate high school two years early, like he did with Robb, and like he did with Arya who graduated two months ago. Dad’s tough love stance can be brutal but is certainly effective.

“They _make_ us live like this,” I correct. The distinction means something. “But I guess they let us, too.”

“Come on! I want to order food,” Margaery chirps, clearly not listening, and bounds down the hall.

 

**———————**

An hour later, I’m in pajamas and flat on the floor of our living room listening to Margaery greet the delivery man. I take a drag of the joint Margaery just rolled and am pleased when it inhales smooth and tangy. I guess Pod-the-nice-drug-dealing-Uber-driver knew what he was talking about.

“Sans, do you have any small change?” Marg calls from behind me.

“Purse! Counter!” I yell back.

I hear her find what she needs, thank the delivery guy, and shut the door. She runs to the low table beside me and slams down a bag of aromatic Chinese food. She rifles around until she finds and pops open a box, attacking it with a fork she brought from the kitchen.

“ _Yeeees,_ ” she moans. “Are you gonna have some?”

“Yeah, in a bit.”

The truth is I’m not hungry anymore. My stomach is churning. Lying here for the past thirty minutes has given me ample time to come down off the initial rush of the night and start seeping down into… doubt, anxiety, uncertainty, unease.

I take another deep drag from the joint and then hold it straight up into the air for Marg to grab if she wants. She grunts appreciatively and takes it.

She coughs. “I didn’t expect this chow mien to be spicy. Whew!”

I keep staring at the ceiling. I feel like I have no leftover accurate perception of what really happened tonight now that my brain has started going in on it. It feels like a dream, one that is becoming scarier and less solid the more and more I try to remember it.

“Here,” Marg says. I sit up a little and twist to take back the joint.

“Woah, are you okay?” she asks, looking at me with a little surprise.

“Yeah,” I answer instinctively, and lay right back down. Is the distress on my face? My hands starts to itch for my phone, some kind of distraction.

“Sansa, seriously, are you good?”

I take another hit and smile wryly. “I probably shouldn’t get high when I’m already over analyzing something— my thoughts get all lost inside each other. I never see the end of one thought because another one swallows it before it finishes and then it happens all over and over.”

“Oh no. Sansa, give me the joint.”

“No.” I inhale another deep drag. Maybe if I smoke enough all my thoughts will swallow each other up before they even begin! Maybe if enough thoughts fire at once I won’t be able to hear or fixate on any one of them! I take another hit. My body feels very heavy.

“Okay, that’s enough of that,” I hear Margaery say as she plucks it from my hand. “Come sit up here on the couch.”

I give a low moan.

“It’ll be better up here, get up,” she prods aggressively.

It feels like it takes everything in me to do it, but I manage to rise from the rug and sit down next to Margaery on the couch. She shoves a box of fried rice and a fork into my hands.

“Eat,” she commands. I take a forkful of rice into my mouth and chew, despite my insides cringing at the thought. Once I swallow, though, everything changes and I want more. I go for another forkful.

“Good girl,” she says, sounding relieved that I’m functioning again.

I nearly choke on my fucking rice. Once I can breathe again, it turns into laughter. Margaery looks confused, but laughs with me anyway, the sweet thing.

“Maybe—” I pause to breathe, tears forming, “—Maybe don’t say that. Like that.”

“Oh, okay,” she says, clearly still confused but good-natured about it.

“It’s not you,” I explain, “it’s just that he— I don’t think I can ever hear that the same way again.”

Her eyes go wide, “What…Baelish?”

“Yeah,” I say, and give her a moment to process.

“Wait, he’d say that you? And everything?”

“Yeah, and everything.”

“Were you into it?”

“Yeah, honestly best I’ve ever had.” I’m glad she’s not asking for specifics because I don’t know if I’d be capable of giving them.

“Shit, Sans, then why are you so sad right now?”

The question wipes the smile off my face. Why _am_ I sad?

“I guess… I guess it still doesn’t feel real. I’m afraid he’s going to see me differently.”

“Differently than from before? But… isn’t that the idea? Isn't that good?”

“Yeah,” I say noncommittally, because I agree but mostly because I don’t actually know what I’m trying to say.

“Are you afraid of what’s going to happen at work? Or that he was using you?”

“Wow Marg,” I moan, “I wasn’t until now, thanks.” I’m teasing her; I’m really not afraid of either of those things. I trust him, weirdly, even if he has a bit of a reputation amongst others for being untrustworthy. I don’t think he wants to hurt me. Or use me. I feel safe around him in a way that feels very fundamental.

“Well sorry, just trying to help!” she exclaims between mouthfuls and I wave her off.

I realize what I’ve been trying to say, what’s really getting me, and I shiver.

“...This feels really important and I’m scared I’m going to do something wrong.”

Margaery looks at me sadly as though she thinks I’m about to cry, which I’m definitely not. She strokes my arm. “Do you care about him, Sans?”

This question is too much and I shake her hand away and find the joint, which still smolders in our little heart-shaped ashtray.

“Like you said, we work together. Might be weird.”

I don’t look at her.

I know very little about the world. I won’t pretend that I don’t. I have big aspirations and little experience. Most places I go I’m the smallest, youngest, least competent person in the room. Everything I’ve ever wanted has been out of reach, and it’s felt utterly perpetual.

But Petyr let me into his reach. It was all real. His want for me was real, his hands on me were real, and the way he looked at me was so real it that it made me shudder. I don’t want tonight to be the only time I’ll ever get to feel that.

I’m afraid that wanting more is wrong or naive, that caring is childish. I don’t _know_ enough to do this right. I don’t know anything at all.

Mostly I’m furious with myself for feeling so attached so goddamn quickly— so instantly. At the same time, though, it doesn’t feel new at all. It feels strangely inevitable. It feels like it was just waiting. It doesn’t make sense, but the amount of emotion and hurt and confusion happening in me right now is not proportional to what actually happened tonight. This can’t just be about tonight. I’m so confused.

Flashes and fragments of memories start to cave in on me. Stupid, small, memories— mostly just details like the texture of a ribbon or the smell of a rain-dampened coat or the backlit profile of a face. I feel like someone has flipped an ‘on’ switch in my brain and now I’m skipping across the plane of my conscious memory from detail to detail until I’ve connected enough to start to understand. It's like I'm learning to hear a frequency that I've tuned out of, the way you unconsciously tune out the sound of emergency sirens when you move to a big city or the sound of planes passing close overhead when you work by an airport. It's like I'm suddenly conscious of what I've been hearing for a long very time without realizing. I'm tuning back in. Now everything is suddenly very close and loud and scary and obvious.

“You know,” I think aloud, feeling numb, “I’ve basically ignored Petyr for the entire time I’ve worked for him.”

“Ignored him?”

“I kept to myself so he and everyone else would think I was professional. I only interacted with him if I had to. Kept to the other offices a lot. …It was all bullshit, though.”

“Well, sure, look at you now!” A grin is in her voice, but she doesn’t understand.

I avoided Petyr because I didn’t know how to act around him. Because I was attached to him, even then, even long before coming to Lannisport. I remember as a girl being fascinated by him. I remember taking special note of all the things he’d say and do when I was around him. I’d study him. I wanted to be like him, be successful like him, powerful like him, knowledgeable as him. I always cared more about what he thought and had to say than any of my parents or their friends.

I remember, too, when looking at him started to feel different. Having his complete attention started feeling… exciting. I started noticing the finer details of his face, how nicely he dressed and groomed, how his quiet and careful eyes moved like they had a secret, how he always looked like he knew something you didn’t. I took close note of the way he was always in control of himself and his environment in any given moment. I found myself drawn to watching his hands, especially interested in his shirtsleeves when they were pushed up. Hundreds of tiny details that I’ve kept filed away through the years break through the surface.

I’m left with the understanding that wanting to 'preserve my professionalism' in front of a handful of lifeless corporate worker bees never fucking mattered to me. My reason for avoiding him was never about _seeming_ like anything to anyone— knowing him was never a threat to my image. If anything, it could've been the opposite. I simply never knew how to act around Petyr Baelish. And I didn’t like that. I stayed away.

No. I’ve met my threshold on this; I can’t think about it anymore. The implications of everything are threatening to implode my sanity. I’m going to pretend I never thought about this. Thinking about tonight, sure— thinking about him, fine. Just not this particular revelation. It’s too much, it's a step too far. Not now.

I take a final hit from the joint and set it back down. I let my memory drift back to before I left the office and remember the feeling of Petyr’s hand gently running through my hair. It was tender and steady and reverent, and just the thought of it makes me feel hollow, sitting here now. After everything we did, after the filth and the passion, when my pulse lowered, I fell against him, and he… let me. He let me stay there.

I sigh. Grabbing ahold of my fork again, I take a solemn bite of rice.

He let me stay until my senses settled, until I got up to put my clothes back on and—

Oh no. Oh Gods. No no no.

 _I left my panties there._ On purpose. I left them on the seat of his desk chair as he was tying his shoes. I’m not sure what to make of this realization right now— I’d honestly forgotten about it since we got home. In this moment, at least, I’m a quarter thrilled by the idea, a quarter anxiety-ridden, and half utterly horrified at myself. Why did I think that was a good idea? Yes, there’s a possibility that he’ll think it’s hot, but there are plenty of other possibilities here that are threatening to drown me. Is leaving or giving panties to someone something people really do or was I going off too many books and movies? He can’t possibly take me seriously after this… can he? Even if he’s into it, what then? The anxiety and uncertainty of it all is making me feel sick. I take another giant bite of rice.

“Is it hot to leave your panties behind?” I blurt.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“I mean… yeah, I think. It definitely leaves a message. Did you?”

“What? What kind of message?”

“Sansa, if you left them, then you knew exactly what you were doing.”

I glare at her. She’s right, of course. Being away from the situation is letting my brain take so many leaps and turns away from the truth and a clear view of it. I left the panties there. That’s the truth. That means I must have felt confident enough to do it and confident enough that he’d like it. I try to breathe.

“I’m going to bed. Do you need any help with this?” I gesture to the table full of food.

“No!” She scowls, like I’m threatening to take the food away. “No, I’m good. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I just need to sleep now, I think. Good night.”

 

 

I take my phone with me into my bed and under the covers. I unlock it and fly through checking my texts, email, and calls. Then I go to my contacts and find Petyr. I don’t plan on contacting him, I just want to look. He threw me off slightly when he mentioned having each other’s numbers already. He’s right, of course, I just hadn’t thought of that. I’ve had Petyr’s phone number since I was probably fourteen, which was when I first got a phone. I stare at the number. We don’t have an ongoing text conversation, not even from back in the day for some reason or another with family stuff. I have no reason to use his cell at work. When would I ever text or call him now? For what reason? What would I say? _‘Hey, it’s Sansa, want to have sex?’_ I would never do that in a million years. I’m still not even sure what is or isn’t appropriate— if I texted right now, I mean, it’s 2:30 AM! If I texted in the middle of the afternoon… I feel like that’s almost worse. I don’t know where the boundaries are. I don’t know how much he actually cares. I don’t know where I stand now, and I don’t know where he wants me to stand. I’m still staring at the number as though it’s going to talk to me and tell me what to do.

I lock the phone, huff, and shove it under my pillow, flipping myself over so I lie on my back. Then I’m just staring through the blurry dark up at the ceiling. It’s too quiet. A minute passes and I still don’t close my eyes.

... And then, of course, I’m thinking about Petyr.

A car honks in the distance.

... I’m thinking about the way his hands grabbed me.

Margaery’s phone dings in the kitchen.

... I’m thinking about how they pinned me down and easily controlled me.

A cold breeze comes through the window and I bury deeper into my blankets, pulling them closer under my chin.

... I’m thinking of his hand grabbing my face, of his green-grey eyes poring over me with want and warmth.

My phone vibrates loudly under my head and I jump, despite the pillow softening the severity of the sensation. Something inside of me freezes. I decide not to torture myself and just look at the notification.

It’s a text from Petyr Baelish. I open it.

 **P. Baelish:** _Thanks for the gift, I love it. That was very sweet of you._

I feel my face burn, even here, alone in the dark.

 **S. Stark:** _I hoped you would, but I wasn’t sure._

I’ve never been one for ‘sexting,’ but flirting I can do. Especially when it’s Petyr. His response is quick.

 **P. Baelish:** _I didn’t think you’d be awake— and you have no idea._

 **S. Stark:** _1\. I don’t have a bedtime and 2. I have a lot on my mind._

I consider writing ‘I’m sorry, am I not allowed to be awake?’ and decide against it.

 **P. Baelish:** _Anything I can help with?_

I don’t know how to answer that. Any contact with Petyr will lead to more torrential thoughts, and any time not in contact with him with be twice as bad. I can’t tell him what the thoughts are, either, so I tell him the truth.

 **S. Stark:** _That’s sweet, but no. You’re awake, too, you know._

 **P. Baelish:** _Well, I have a lot on my mind._

My heart does a little flip.

 **S. Stark:** _And you had to shut down the club?_

 **P. Baelish:** _That too._

 **P. Baelish:** _What are you doing tomorrow?_

_Whatever it is you’re about to ask me._

**S. Stark:** _I don’t have any plans, why?_

 **P. Baelish:** _Meet me for coffee, I want to discuss the trip. You’re getting Monday off and we leave Tuesday, so we should talk this weekend._

 **S. Stark:** _Alright, makes sense._

 **P. Baelish:** _Two o’clock, the Ziggy’s across from Lannisport?_

 **S. Stark:** _I know the one. Tomorrow, then?_

 **P. Baelish:** _Tomorrow. Sweet dreams, Sansa._

I lock my phone and let the words melt over me. _Sweet dreams._ And I fall asleep.

__

 

 

——————————

——————————

 

 

Margaery braids my hair down my back, humming. It’s 1:30 in the afternoon and my hair still hasn’t dried from showering two hours ago. I know it’ll get wild and twisty if I don’t get it under control before I leave the house, so I asked Margaery to help me. She has magic hands when it comes to hair— she even went to beauty school for a while a couple years ago until it bored her to death and she quit. She still takes styling very seriously and I’ve gotten to take advantage of that through the years.

She pushes my head forward a couple of inches. I stare at my knees, dark purple from tripping out of my car three days ago.

“Should I wear jeans?” I ask Margaery nervously, who is uncharacteristically quiet from focus.

“No. He already saw your knees, Sans,” she reminds me, snapping for the hair tie. I bring it over my shoulder and feel her fingers snatch it from mine. “Besides, you look really cute… and you’re done.”

My hand comes up and gently pats the braid. “Thank you. You're the best.”

I glance in the mirror. The braid and everything else about me today is pretty simple and fresh, which is strangely comforting. Feeling comfortable in what I’m wearing takes a lot of my stress away— how I look is one less thing to worry about. The hem of my skirt is a bit high, but I can’t help that I’m tall.

“No problem. Ask him if I can get a membership to that second floor, yeah?” she jokes.

“Sure, if I’m able to speak at all.”

“Sansa, he _likes_ you. He asked you to meet him! Once you accept that you can fucking relax, maybe, yeah?”

“We’re just talking about a work trip—”

“Oh, is that so?”

 _Smart-ass._ “Yeah, okay, I get it.”

“And put some lipstick on. You look like you’re going to visit your grandmother.” She shoves a little bottle of a rosy berry lip tint at me and stalks away.

Margaery is actually going to have lunch with her grandmother and is a little worked up about it. I glare as she leaves but I do as she says, and I’m pleased at the effect that the stain gives. I layer it and make the color darker in the center of my lips and step back to admire my work. I dab a tiny bit across my cheeks, as well, before setting it back on the counter and leaving the bathroom.

I’ve grabbed my purse and am about to call out a quick goodbye when Margaery appears by the door and beats me to it.

“See you later,” she smiles, but something is caught in it. “And— you know that I’m happy that you’re happy with liking this guy, but I… I mean, I guess, just be careful, okay? You’ll be careful with him?”

In her eyes, now, I see myself as Margaery does— her innocent baby best friend, involved with some unknown older man who wields more power in his little finger than she's had in her— _my_ — entire life. She wants to be supportive, but she’s nervous— on some level she’s probably worried for me. Why wouldn’t she be? I know this is all seems pretty uncharacteristic of me, I know she's watched me handle guys my age horribly in the past, and I know that she knows how potentially dangerous any man with power is. I get it. I smile at her, so thankful that she's trying to look out for me but also wanting to make her feel better about all of this. I want her to realize that Petyr isn’t a threat; I want her to see him like I do. I reach out and squeeze her hand.

“I will be.” I let that sit for a real moment before adding, “Well… say hello to Olenna for me!”

“The woman loves you!” Margaery whines as I leave. “She’ll only ask me why you didn’t come along!”

I ignore this. “See you later, Marg!” I call loudly, just as the door closes. I head for the parking garage, the low tingling anxiety feeling less and less like dread and more and more like a pleasant, heady anticipation.

 

———————

I get lucky and find parking just a block away from Ziggy’s. Before I get out of the car, I check my reflection in the visor mirror and adjust the slight off-the-shoulder neckline of my shirt. I exit the car before I can overthink this to death.

I see him before he sees me. He sits at a small outdoor table, slightly pushed back from the others. One other table outside is occupied by two men who seem to be arguing about something, speaking in some Slavic language. The shop is nearly full inside inside.

His back is to me as I approach. From here I can tell he’s wearing a dress shirt, which sends a unfamiliar wave of gratification through me. He’s on his phone, reading something. I get closer, notice his sleeves slightly pushed up, and feel my pulse spike. I take a full breath and then decide to sit down across from him rather than announcing my presence standing at the side of the table.

I drop into the chair opposite him and feel the blushing begin before he even looks up. Maybe I should’ve taken a couple shots before walking over here— drunk me seemed able to handle Petyr Baelish without feeling like she might throw up.

“Hi,” I say, and I’m pleased to hear myself sound relatively normal.

“Sansa,” he acknowledges me with a warm smile, though his tone is frustratingly even and indeterminable. He pushes a lidded cup of coffee towards me.

“Is that for me?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s what you normally get. Tell me if I’m wrong, though.”

The cup is unmarked so I take a hesitant sip. It tastes exactly like a triple-shot vanilla latte. I look up at him, surprised.

“How do you know what I normally get?”

He smiles like he’s pleased with himself. “Is it right?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve paid attention.” He smiles, almost abashed, scratching his cheek. I can tell that there’s something heavier behind those words, something that I can’t read, something that almost feels like private reflection. I feel warmth bloom in my face, my chest, my stomach, all radiating outwards. He’s paid attention? What does that mean? Since when?

I want to ask him more about those three words, but the words won’t come.

“Thank you,” I manage. I look down to the coffee and spin it in my hand.

“Of course.”

“You wanted to talk about the trip?” I find myself asking, because my nerves demand a break and work talk feels safe.

“Yes, just a few things— for one, I wanted to let you know that I’m not sure how much you’ll actually be allowed to sit in on in San Francisco. You may have spend a lot of time by yourself, depending on what the ILM people say is okay on the day. I can’t guarantee anything, unfortunately. I can only guarantee you’ll be allowed in to observe and assist me in the general meeting on Wednesday, nothing else is certain. Likely, yes, but certain, no.”

“I understand. That’s alright,” I tell him.

“Are you sure? I don’t want you to feel that this is a waste of your time.”

“It won’t be a waste of my time,” I answer directly, making sure he feels that I mean it. _If you’re there, it’s not a waste._ He holds my gaze for a brief moment, sees my sureness, and nods.

“We fly late Tuesday afternoon. I was wondering if you’d like to… carpool. To the airport.” He cocks his head at me, a smile just beneath the surface.

“I would,” I agree simply. His smile spreads to the edges of his handsome face, illuminating him from inside. Being at the center of his attention is almost overwhelming.

“Good. That would make me very happy.” I can’t help but blush at the words; I might imagine it, but he seems to pause a moment just to appreciate it. “You might want to review the work of some of the more important people who will be there. I emailed you a list of names about an hour ago. Being familiar with them will help you.”

“Okay,” I nod. Makes sense to me. “Thank you.”

“Pack versatile clothing. A lot of the time the real business gets decided in private— at cafes, fine restaurants, clubs— hells, even on trains or in pool halls or museums or malls. It all depends on the situation. Twice I’ve seen Tywin Lannister close deals with contractors at two in the morning in a random grimy pubs. You need to be prepared for that.”

I nod again.

“I know you’re already familiar with the concept of reading a room, but know it’ll be important here. If you don’t feel like you have enough information on someone or something, hold back on whatever you want to say or do until you gather it. These people’s motivations are messy and not always obvious.”

“Don’t run my mouth, got it.”

“You know that’s not what I mean. The first thing you need to understand with high profile people is that knowing what they want— and not necessarily what they say they want— is the first step to understanding them. If you listen for long enough, they always tell you in one way or another without meaning to.”

“Oh.”

“What I’m telling you is that, on principle, observe first. Observe, and then use your judgment. I know this sounds obvious, but I still want you to hear it. If there’s ever a time when you’re unsure of how to react and I’m not there, I want you to remember. Remember to use what you know however you can.”

“Alright.”

“I’m sorry.” He seems scattered for a moment. “Here— let me— I just want you to practice keeping a strategy. For now, practice by noticing everything you can and using it when you can. That’s my assignment. Does that make sense? Can you do that?”

“Yes, I can do that.” He seems so caught up in trying to explain himself properly that he doesn’t notice me comprehending it all quite clearly.

“Good. That’s just— I wanted to get that down early. Do you have any questions?”

My brain isn’t working. I guess I’d love to know about the lodging situation, but I certainly don’t want to ask and I figure I’ll find out soon enough, anyway. I let my chin rest in my palm, elbow leaning on the table. He wants me to pack mindfully and stay on alert. I understand. I don’t have any questions but I do want to wipe that stressed look off of his face.

“Sure. How are you?” I take a sip of my coffee.

“That’s your question?”

“That’s all you wanted to talk about?” I suppress a cheeky grin under another sip.

He looks at me appraisingly, eyes holding a question I know I’m not allowed to answer. I stay still and silent. He leans back.

“I’m alright, thank you. Tired. Distracted.”

“Me too.” I smile.

“Last night? Too much fun?” he asks, smiling slyly. Then, as if double-checking his assumption, “Did you have fun?”

I let my hand fall to the table, away from my face. “You know I did.”

I feel his hand settle loosely over mine. The contact is simultaneously a relief and a rush. His finger traces lazy shapes into my palm.

“I just wanted to hear you say it.” He says it lightly, but something about it sends a chill through me. It’s like he’s telling me— _‘Say it.’_ So I do. Because he asked and because I want to.

“I did. With you, I… I don’t think ‘fun’ is entirely the right word,” I say in a voice that wobbles towards the end, to my embarrassment. I can’t look at him so I look at our hands, a shy smile spreading across my flushed face.

He stops tracing shapes and grabs my hand with a gentle pressure.

“Will you come back? Tonight, to the Mockingbird?” he asks, voice finally breaking its perfect composure.

I look up at him— that wasn’t what I was expecting.

“I won’t touch you,” he adds quickly at seeing my surprise, as though afraid I might get the wrong idea and run away. “I just… want you near. You can bring your friend. I’ll give you a table upstairs, downstairs, whatever. Anything. Will you come?”

“You won’t touch me?” I ask softly, almost inaudibly, confused. I reach my other hand across the table and he takes it. I search his face, feeling more steady now. I drink in the details like I might never see them again. I want him near me, too, I realize. He looks up at me and his eyes flash, a wicked undercurrent passing deep beneath us.

“Not at the club,” he clarifies, the words delivered softly, directly, with the faintest smile. It feels like a line in the sand— a boundary, a threat, a promise. The unspoken idea thrums between us, and the energy burns through me so pleasantly that I don’t let myself look away, even as I feel more heat crawling across my cheeks.

“Okay,” I answer quietly, feeling very far away across the table. “I want to be near, too,” I admit, leaving the 'you' out of 'want to be near _you,'_ which is what I really mean, to follow his lead.

His hold on my hands compresses slightly. “So you’ll come?”

Margaery is going to be thrilled.

“Yes, I’ll come,” I answer. His eyes flash and scrunch up at the corners, a true smile lighting up his face. I feel giddy at the sight of it. _It’s for me._

“That makes me very happy, Sansa.” I love the way he says that, simultaneously soft and intense. My heart hammers in my chest.

“I’m glad I can make you happy, Petyr.” I tease without really teasing. Ninety-nine percent of me means it completely and I know it shows. I know it’s plain for him to see; I know it’s all over my face, thick in my voice.

His expression softens and his eyes darken. “Do you know how perfect you are, sweetling?” His voice is low and kind.

Something gets real slow and heavy in my stomach at hearing him use that name. My cheeks heat up _again._ On a real level, though, I don’t know how to answer this. I just gape at him, probably.

“Very,” he says, answering his own question. I give a breathy half-laugh, rolling my eyes back and closing them briefly, embarrassed and unsure of how to handle this particular kind of attention.

“Don’t roll your eyes,” he says calmly. It’s not menacing, and it’s not strictly disciplinary-sounding, either. It’s more of an off-hand warning— an off-hand warning with complete seriousness behind it. My face is still burning from when he called me ‘sweetling.’

“I’m sorry,” I murmur, even though my original instinct would’ve been to make the case that I didn’t roll my eyes in the first place. Now all I want is to please him, as strange as feels.

“It’s alright,” he tells me with a casual assumed authority that makes my pulse stutter. “Drink your coffee, it’ll get cold.”

I take my hands away from his, trying not to look as sad about it as I feel. I would obey Petyr’s direction all day as long as I got to stay in the radius of his glow, as long as he kept looking at me the way he does. I drink my coffee while Petyr quickly checks some notifications on his phone. I watch him carefully— his fingers, his eyes, the set of his shoulders. Even his posture, the very way he holds himself makes me feel heavy with yearning. My heart feels like a damn sponge sodden with mercury.

I realize, then, with a sinking feeling that I’ve become hopelessly attached to Petyr Baelish. I'm realizing it... again. I know that I want to be his— I want it so badly that it feels like the most important thing to ever happen to me. I know it’s stupid. I sound like a fucking child and I know it. I want to cry. I’m so fucking stupid.

Petyr looks up and catches me staring. He smiles, but I sense concern. I try to school my features.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, putting his phone away.

“My coffee order,” I say, sad enough to somehow circle back around into reckless boldness. “You said you’ve ‘paid attention.’ What does that mean?”

We both know I’m not really asking about my coffee order. I can see it in his eyes.

“It’s pretty easy to notice what someone—” he tries.

“Petyr, what does it really mean?”

He’s never done a coffee run for the office once in my time there, and neither has he been present while I’ve taken orders. I’m sure he just asked someone about mine, but knowing how he knew isn’t the point. The point is the way he said ‘I’ve paid attention’ earlier with an open tone of dual meaning and that I want to know what the other meaning was. Did he expect me to just ignore it? I'm smarter than that.

Petyr’s eyebrows pinch together in thought— not the kind of thought that comes up with an answer but rather the kind that tries to decide whether or not to tell the truth. I couldn’t say exactly how I'm able to tell the difference (maybe from experience with my parents,) but I can fucking tell the difference— I can tell from his expression that, right now, Petyr is deciding how much I can handle.

“You can tell me,” I push.

“Well it means I’ve paid attention, doesn’t it?” he jokes, trying to brush it off. Nope. Now I _really_ need to know. The deflection only makes me fixate harder.

“Since when? What does that mean?” Annoyance scratches the words through my throat, agitated by my imagined heartbreak over absolutely nothing.

He clasps his hands together and looks at me like I’m making his life very difficult by asking these questions. I don’t back down.

“Since when?” I repeat.

“I don’t know, Sansa. A while, okay?” He sighs and wipes a spot of coffee from his cup. “Since… a long time.”

He looks at me with a tired expression, and I understand then that ‘a long time’ doesn’t mean a few months or a year. In the silence I realize that this feels like something I already knew. I just wanted to hear him say it. I wanted to be sure.

“I’ve been paying attention since long before you worked for me,” he adds with difficulty, not looking at me. “Before Lysa.”

This rocks me a little. Petyr became more involved with my family a few years ago when he started dating my aunt. It lasted only for a few months, and even after it ended he stayed around on a more active basis. I remember seeing them together for the first time when they came to a family dinner celebrating my sixteenth birthday.

I understand what he’s saying. He's been paying attention as I've grown up. He had been paying attention when I was generally considered too young to be paid attention to. Despite being close my family, despite dating my aunt, it was me. This has been a long-standing thing. I look inside myself but I can’t find any part of me that feels anything other than a growing warmth for him.

Despite the implications of all he’s saying and all the things he’s leaving out, I feel sure. I feel safe around Petyr. I always have and nothing could change that, now. He’s never hurt me and I know he never would.

I swallow hard, by my voice cracks initially regardless. “Me too.” A deep breath. “I think it was always there… you know, underneath.”

It’s the truth. It’s dawning on me fast and hard as I sit here and look at him. I feel like I’ve ripped out my own beating heart and placed it in from of him for him to judge. I put my hands in my lap, scared that they might start visibly shaking.

Petyr winces, regret closing down his features now that I’ve tugged his real answer from him, now that the truth sits plain between us. He looks at me with a sad and wearied expression that says _‘you don’t have to say that, Sansa.’_ He’s mortified and distressed and trying not to show it.

I realize that by answering me honestly, Petyr had, in some part, already resigned himself to letting go— he’d entirely prepared himself for my hate or revulsion, prepared to jump ship.

Suddenly, irrationally, I feel like I’m about to lose him if I don’t do something right fucking now.

“No, you have to believe me,” I whisper, feeling stupid tears starting to close the back of my throat.

“Sansa, it’s okay, you don’t… you’re young, and it’s not fair for me to expect you to—”

I begin talking in a mad rush, panicked in the face of the closing gate that is my own impending breakdown. I trip over my words so that I can get them all out because I _need_ him to understand. He has to understand. My words gain an uncontrollable momentum and everything, all my control rolls fast and far away from me.

_“No listen please I’ve always felt safe around you and I’ve noticed you helping me at work and home and I’ve noticed you watching out for me and for so long I never even realized and I’ve always found you attractive even when I was little I’d stare at you all the time I loved the white at your temples I’ve thought about touching them for years and years and years I noticed every thing about you and I’ve only avoided you in the past because you were effecting me strangely because just by looking at you I would be thrown off so hard and now I know that it was because I was scared and confused because I wanted you and when I was younger I would make stories up about you all the time because you were so interesting and kind and handsome and mysterious so I’d fill in the blanks and imagine what you were like and what your life was like I wanted to know everything about you and I still do and I’ve always been fascinated by you I’ve always felt safe around you and I’ve always felt you looking out for me in one way or another my entire life and you’ve always been so kind to me and I’ve felt your presence constantly and now you just really have to believe me when I say that you saying you’ve ‘noticed me’ for however fucking long doesn’t matter because this has been building throughout my entire life into this right now and finally now it feels like everything makes sense and I just want to be around you I swear to the gods I swear to you I’m not making this up you have to believe me please believe me I would do anything so that you would believe me Petyr you have to—”_

I have to stop and stifle a dry sob into my elbow. I try to take another breath to finish what I was saying, but my lungs won’t comply— instead they pump in and out spastically in hard gasps, which freaks me out and makes it worse.

Hands come down on my shoulders but I refuse to look up. Instead I stare at my hands on top of my stomach and watch them go up and down as I desperately try to regulate my breathing. It starts to work and I hear Petyr’s voice again, sounding a mile away. Oh gods. What have I done?

“Sansa, sweetling, I believe you,” Petyr’s far-away voice is saying gently. I feel his hand stroke my back and settle around my waist, pulling me softly against his side. The warmth he gives grounds me a little bit.

“I’m sorry,” I hear myself say, but the tiny voice doesn’t sound like it belongs to me. “I’m sorry,” I repeat, and this time it sounds closer. I stay hunched over until I can breathe normally again. I stay there until my mind is relatively settled. Dread still twists in my gut from the horror of the scene I just made but I know that I can’t hide like this forever. I just can’t. After clinging to another moment of calm in this position, I sit up slowly.

Petyr sits in a chair that he has brought beside mine and has an arm holding me against him. I blink until my eyes adjust.

I am downright humiliated. I just had a… whatever that was— an anxiety attack?— about Petyr, in _front_ of Petyr. Of course he’s comforting me. If I was in this situation with someone else and the roles were reversed, I’d feel obligated to help their pathetic ass, too. I just told Petyr every intimate thing I remember thinking and feeling about him as a girl. I just said it all. I just laid myself bare and I can’t take it back.

I can’t even look into Petyr’s face when I say the only thing I can think to.

“I’m sorry. I’m… really embarrassed.”

“Don’t be. Can I do anything that would help you?”

Hearing him be so nice to me is only making my embarrassment worse. I feel pathetic. I suck it up and decide to play it off lighter than it feels. I grab my coffee off the table, take a sip, then force myself to look at him.

“I’m good. I have all I need.” I try to smile, but I don’t think it works. I can’t hold the eye contact.

Petyr leans his head down so that his nose brushes my temple.

“I believe you, Sansa,” he says quietly. “I believe you.” We stay in this position for a long moment. Despite the humiliation pulsing through me like toxic sludge, I feel safe like this. I drop my head against his shoulder, caving in to the fact that I already threw caution to the wind three minutes ago. I can’t really do much to make this worse, can I? No, I don’t think so. So I put my fucking head on his shoulder like I so badly want to.

“I’m sorry,” I moan, trying to grasp at anything that might possibly make this better.

“You’re not allowed to apologize anymore. Okay?”

That’s not fair— he has to know that I’d do anything he asked. “Okay.”

“I’m glad you said those things,” he says against my ear. I moan again, wishing that he’d stop sparing my feelings. It makes it so much worse. “No, I am. I feel a lot better about… everything.”

I feel him run a hand along my braid and toy with the tail.

“Because I made a fool of myself so now you can’t possibly seem like one?”

“Sansa,” he warns.

“I wasn’t apologizing!”

“Because now I don’t feel less like I’m doing something wrong. Now I don’t feel so much like a predator.”

I look up, trying to see if he’s serious. He is. No, that’s wrong— he shouldn’t feel that way. He can’t. He never once hurt me in any way. I’m eighteen, now, anyways, which I’m sure he realizes. It hurts to think Petyr is worried about that, or that he believes it of himself. His conscience is admirable, but doesn’t belong here, bothering us for no good reason.

I snake my hands up and pull his face down to kiss him gently on the mouth for a few lingering moments.

“You never were.”

His smile feels warm shining down on me. His eyes crinkle, and the sight of it sends the weight on my chest sliding off and away. “Sure.”

“You never touched me until yesterday, remember?”

“I remember.” His eyes gleam as he says it which makes me laugh.

“Knowing that makes me happy.” I press myself closer to him. “You’ve always been safe to me. Something solid.”

“Well, I only understood about half of what you just said,” he replies, moving his hand across my back, “but I’m happy that I know that half of it.”

He’s poking fun at me, which feels infinitely better than when he was being so cautiously nice moments ago. I look up and try to scowl at him, but I can’t hold it. He watches me as I let go into a smile and blink up at him with curious eyes, trying to read his thoughts.

"I like that you've liked me since then, Petyr," I say quietly. "It only proves how good you are."

"Sansa..."

"Anyone other than you— no. Just you, only you. I like that you were there all that time. I like that."

"Sans—"

"I like thinking about it." I say it low and clear and guileless, close to his ear.

His eyes glaze slightly and then he lowers his mouth to mine.

I take the opportunity and latch on to him tightly. I feel like my soul is being lifted from my chest and my blood is singing. I savor the feeling of his lips moving on mine so gently that it feels like he’s being careful with me, which he probably is. I can tell he’s holding back— likely because we’re technically in public and also because I almost hyperventilated myself into unconsciousness two minutes ago. I don’t care. I pull myself closer.

He laughs under his breath and just barely runs his tongue along the inside of my bottom lip. A strangled little whimper slips out from my mouth and into his, my tongue slipping forward and skimming—

“— _fuck_ , Sansa,” he grunts, pulling away from me in one swift movement.

“You okay?” I ask, adding just a tinge of playful innocence.

“I’m never going to leave you alone, now, you realize that?”

The look on his face sends a dizzy satisfaction to my head and a dense heat to my stomach.

“Good,” I grin.

He brings a hand to my face and strokes my cheek delicately. I can’t stop my physical reaction as I sigh and let my eyes drift closed. I feel blissfully unbalanced.

“Perfect,” he murmurs. “My perfect girl.”

I hum in response to his voice and the words, heart fluttering violently against my ribcage. I can just sense him smiling at my reaction through the black of my eyelids.

“Do you like that?” he asks quietly, still stroking. “Are you my girl, Sansa?”

“Yes,” I whisper, leaning into his hand.

I feel the brief press of his lips to mine, after which I open my eyes again, lids heavy.

“I’m never going to want to be left alone, now, you know that?” I ask sleepily, truly never wanting to be anywhere but next to him ever again. I feel like warm putty melting against his side. I know I would be as good as putty in his hands right now— judging by the sly knowing smile on his face, he very well knows that.

“That works out,” he answers in a quiet voice, giving me another kiss— more lingering this time. I want more. “You’re still coming tonight, yes?”

“Yes.” I wish we were alone somewhere right now. I feel like I’m going crazy. I can feel my panties getting steadily wetter. I breathe and try to focus. “You said it’s alright to bring Margaery, right?”

“Yes, of course— I’ll get you two a good table upstairs in case you want to come up. You can go wherever. The front will let you right in.”

“Thank you, Petyr,” I say.

“Like I said,” he says, tucking some flyaway hair behind my ear, “I just want you near me, sweetling.”

Literally all I’m able to process from that sentence is ‘sweetling,’ which doesn’t help my deteriorating focus. He’s fucking torturing me. I can’t manage to say anything in response, so I smile. I could easily escalate this the way I want to right now, but there’s no point. It would only make things worse for me, with having to drive away soon. I’m thinking a clean break might be best— yes, to say goodbye and get out of here before I do something embarrassing… again. I don’t want to leave him, but I know that I need to go home so that I can leave to see him again.

“Are you alright?” he asks me before I can come up with a move to leave.

“Yeah,” I answer, but my voice warbles with plain vulnerability. I clear my throat and try again. “I’m fine. Just thinking I should get back to my apartment to get ready and everything. Marg should be coming back from her grandmother’s soon, too, and then I can talk to her about tonight.”

“Okay,” he says, sounding carefully neutral while eyeing me cautiously. Does he think I’m going to have another breakdown? That’s hilarious. Maybe I am, who knows.

Then his grip on my waist shifts and I become hyper-aware of every point of contact his skin has with mine. I have to get out of here before I melt into his lap right here, right here at this tiny table beside a sidewalk.

I stand up from my chair and face him, slinging my bag over my shoulder.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks, about to get up, too. Before he can even start to stand, I lean down and kiss him, keeping him in place.

I steady myself by bracing a hand on his thigh, and then, in some bold hope of explanation, I discreetly take one of his hands up my thigh and press it against the wetness between my legs. I hold his fingers there for a moment, melting my tongue into his mouth.

Petyr goes completely, chillingly still. Then, a faint noise that’s mostly a vibration comes from the back of his throat and he takes control of the kiss. His fingers press against me through the slick fabric and he pulls me closer. I allow this for a just a moment, then tear myself away from him and take a step back, smoothing my hair. Breathing.

“I’m doing okay,” I assure him, holding back a grin.

Petyr looks like he’s been shoved abruptly out of a good dream, bleary-eyed and off-kilter.

“I’ll see you later tonight,” I say when he doesn’t respond.

“Sansa.” He looks at me, eyes closing into focus, and gives a murky warning of a smile—warm, serious, dangerous. “You’re going to regret that.”

The way he says it sends a chill through me; I haven’t seen this Petyr, yet, and I'm curious. I can’t help myself, I have to push him. It’s like trying to resist pushing a big red candy button that says ‘Don’t Push!’— you just can’t. So I shrug.

“Maybe.” I swing my braid around and grab my coffee so I can finish the rest on the way home. “Thanks for the coffee.”

He sighs, scratching an eyebrow in amused disbelief. “You’re very welcome, sweetling.” His emphasis on the last word makes it clear that he knows what it does to me. “I will see you later.” It sounds like a promise, maybe a threat. My face burns.

This is becoming a blatant competition, one that I will lose if I don’t tap out now. I start walking away.

“Right, see you,” I say over my shoulder as I round the corner, a hint of challenge seeping into my voice. He is a giant big red button to me, one that only threatens more good things in the worst case scenario. I smile to myself, walking quickly to my car from nerves and excitement.

Margaery better not have made plans tonight, because I’m going to make her dreams come true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pretty meandering but I had a great time writing it!
> 
> Podrick is now my favorite character.
> 
> Alternative chapter summaries:  
> \- Sansa's compulsive emotional honesty totally works out this time  
> \- The way to Margaery's heart is titties and free weed  
> \- Sansa likes pushed-up sleeves and pushing big red buttons  
> \- Podrick is Super Chill  
> \- Arya doesn't feel the need to wear pants to go to the trash chute?
> 
>  
> 
> Hi! Every kind comment means so much to me! Especially last chapter, I'd never written 'smut' before and was freaked out that I had gone too far (lol) or done it wrong so the positive reactions totally made me feel better and even good about it! It makes me so happy to know that even one person who isn't me is actually reading and enjoying this story. Coolest thing ever. Thanks!


	9. can't have only half

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s no tangible evidence to support such a description, but there is some unnameable quality about Petyr Baelish that feels… dangerous. I’ve only truly started to notice it recently, but I can see it there now, rippling around him in secret.

9  
Petyr

I have a hard time working for the rest of the day.

I really can’t afford to be distracted right now, but I'm finding it annoyingly difficult to focus. My thoughts keeps drifting away into diverging torrents of plans and worries and more plans and more worries, but mostly I think of Sansa.

I feel drunk on it. Triumphant. Warm. Wanting. Alive. Slightly sick, too. I’m inebriated by it, good and bad.

I _was_ trying to write a simple email to the conference coordinator but now I’m staring at the wall behind my desktop and wondering if I should’ve told Sansa the truth. The full of it. 

Telling her everything would be, of course, a calculated risk. 

If I were to weigh this the way I normally would, I might take into account that Sansa has a surname with enough weight to provide a potential advantage in ventures to come. I might take into account that she is a part of a network of production assistants, grips, and other low-level circles across companies and productions that I don’t have access to. I might note that she’s smart, that she’s intuitive. I might remember everything I’ve already told her about my reasons for wanting her as an assistant. I might remind myself that all of it was true— that I do need people I can trust around me. 

The issue now, though, goes beyond that. It goes beyond basic conditional trust. I’m not just considering whether or not to disclose certain information at an opportune moment the way I usually might to get what I need from someone. What I’m considering sharing is… well, all of it. I’m considering giving Sansa all of it. 

It goes beyond ‘calculated risk.’

It’s unprecedented for me to even consider letting anyone that close to the— well… I don’t know what to call it. The bigger picture, perhaps. Not pieces of it, not just carefully chosen snippets meant to gently guide opinion. 

So no, this would not be a calculated risk. The term implies a transactional basis, a wager for measurable return and reward. 

But I know now that whatever ratio of potential risk to potential gain I might’ve come up with is meaningless now that reason has left me. I already know what I’m going to do. 

Whatever I wanted before doesn’t matter now if it can’t be done without Sansa beside me. I could never be satisfied without her. I can’t hold her forever at a distance, I can’t only have half. I won’t waste my own time or energy acting as though this is something I can rationalize because I simply can’t; I have to do it anyway. 

I try to ignore the twist in my gut. I’m no fool— I’m the one always saying that knowing a person’s wants is the same as owning their power, whether they know or not. I know full well how these games are played. So maybe I am a fool; I’m a fool because I’m going to tell her everything I want anyway. It feels like stepping onto the ledge of a cliff— thrilling and terrifying.

But terror serves me no purpose. I can have anything I want because I know how to take it. So I’ll take what I want, I’ll go where I want, and I’ll have who I want. I _can_ have everything, and I will.

I just have to figure out how to go about it. 

I force myself to focus on the screen in front of me and finish the email off with a quick platitude and my signature. I check it for errors then press send, grateful to finally be done after being stuck staring blankly at it for so long.

A new notification has appeared in my private email account’s inbox. It’s Olyvar— he’s sent me a subjectless email with two attachments. I type in this week’s password and take a look.

The first attachment is an unformatted transcription of an email correspondence between Tywin and the head of the casting department. I don’t even skim it. My head is too full right now to make room for more news on contract negotiations, even if I do generally like to keep tabs of the goings-on there.

The second is a document outlining the basic details of Tywin’s flight out of LAX on Tuesday. His private plane leaves three hours later than the flight Sansa and I are on and that’s all I really need to know. I log out.

The muted noises from downstairs have me glancing at the clock. We’ve been open for a few hours but the Saturday night rush is only now just beginning to flood the place. 

I don’t really feel like going down to schmooze right now the way I normally would. To be honest, I’d really prefer to lay face-down on the floor for a bit until my thoughts declutter themselves. A messy mind is a dangerous one and I feel heavy and jagged with this angry beehive of a brain.

My pocket buzzes.

 **Ros:** _Stark & Tyrell girls are here, table 202._

——————————

9  
Sansa

“Maybe I should go to business school,” Margaery muses, eyes drinking in the space around us.

“Oh yeah?”

“I could do it,” she says seriously, “I could run a place like this. I would be a good business owner.”

“I think so, too,” I agree. Marg is ambitious by nature. She’s capable of making friends with anyone, convincing anyone of anything, she drives a hard bargain, is a master manipulator, and is generally smarter than anyone gives her credit for. She’s downright tactical at times— she could probably campaign and win some government office or charm her way into becoming some small country’s sovereign if she felt like it. The only thing between Marg and world domination has been distraction and her own boredom. “But a degree requires at least four years of your life.”

“Yeah, I know,” Marg says, more dismissive than annoyed. The glamour of the club is swallowing her attention. Finally she turns to me. “Did Baelish go to school for business, then?” 

I realize I have no idea. I’m assuming he must have some type of degree but I’ve never heard him talk about it. My heart races for a moment as I think of him, of everything that’s happened, and of how I’m sitting here, now, at his invitation. Because he wanted me here. 

I sat in this very same room only twenty-four hours ago, and yet everything feels different. The setting is more familiar than yesterday, and today I have my best friend by my side, but doesn’t _feel_ like the same place— or maybe I don’t feel like quite the same person.

“I’m not sure, actually,” I answer honestly.

“Well maybe I’ll get to ask him,” she says lightly. She’s being careful, and I can tell. Marg may be good at manipulation but I know her well enough to sense these things. “When he comes to say hello, that is.”

“Mm,” I acknowledge half-heartedly, taking my first sip of a drink. I haven’t had anything to drink yet tonight; I’ve been too afraid to lose even a fraction of control, too afraid of embarrassing myself. Now, sitting here, I figure that maybe just one drink might do me some good.

“He will, won’t he?” Margaery pushes.

“Probably,” I answer. I don’t want to assume, though.“Well, maybe. He does run this place, you know, and it’s Saturday night.”

A shrill scream rises above the noise of the club. We both turn towards the source— it’s just a woman, drunk and doubled over with laughter. It only sets me on edge further.

“He asked you to come, though, didn’t he?”

“You seem eager to meet him,” I say, in the same light and controlled tone she used on me. 

“I’m just curious about him,” she replies defensively, clearly detecting my irritation.

“Curious,” I repeat flatly. I know Marg already distrusts my taste in men and I can tell now that she is likely to be looking for any reason to talk me out and away from Petyr. If we were anywhere else, I’d probably be less angry about it and would have a real discussion about it with her but right now Margaery is only making this harder for me than it already is. 

I am so incredibly happy— the past twenty-four hours have made me feel the most alive I’ve ever felt. I didn’t know it was even possible to feel the way I feel now; the whole thing has left me with a sweet and dizzying whiplash. It’s intense, it’s wonderful, it’s almost unreal. Speaking with Petyr earlier to day showed me that I wasn’t hopeless for wanting him, that I wasn’t stupid or alone or pathetic the way I'd feared. 

But I can’t help but still being a little scared. I can’t help but feel that I’m way out of my depth. Despite having gotten what I wanted and being given every reason to believe it’s real… I am still scared. And I hate that. And Margaery’s persistent suspicion is only strengthening that tiny voice of fear, and not helping right now. 

“Yes, why shouldn’t I be?” She crosses her arms, but then her voice softens. “I swear I only want to meet him because I’m just so fucking curious about the guy. ”

“Curious about who?”

My heart lurches in my chest. I know before I look— he’s there. Petyr is standing above us, looking down with one of those smiles that reveals absolutely nothing.

I feel Margaery freeze beside me, but only for a split second before she recovers seamlessly in true Margaery Tyrell fashion.

“You, actually,” she laughs smoothly, standing. She shakes his hand— something I expected but still makes me cringe inwardly a little. “Margaery Tyrell.”

“Petyr Baelish,” he returns pleasantly. His posture is relaxed and his affect is friendly and polite, but there is something in the way he occupies the space around him that is almost menacing. There’s no tangible evidence to support such a description, but there is some unnameable quality about Petyr Baelish that feels… dangerous. I’ve only truly started to notice it recently, but I can see it there now, rippling around him in secret.

He looks to me and I can’t help but smile— an honest, girlish smile that I couldn’t have suppressed if I tried. His own smile shifts, becomes truer. I forget any fear.

“Ms. Stark,” he nods to me, eyes dancing.

“Hi.” I can’t stop smiling. He turns his attention back to Margaery.

“Well, I’ll have to attend to some things downstairs soon,” he tells her, “but if you don’t mind my company for a couple of minutes, I’d be happy to satisfy some of your curiosity.”

Margaery seems a little thrown off by his immediate and friendly earnestness. Her eyes flick quickly from his face to mine and back again, then gestures for him to sit. Instead of sitting beside either of us, he pulls a chair from another table and sits across from us. I get a faint sense of deja vu, having watched the same man do the very same thing in this same place right before me just last night. The conditions are the same yet essentially everything has changed.

“I’m happy to see you here,” Petyr tells us. “Are you enjoying yourselves?”

I look to Marg to answer.

She clears her throat. “Yeah, this place is great. We were actually here last night, too.”

“Oh? Welcome back, then,” he says graciously. 

Marg clearly doesn’t know what to make of Petyr; she seems at a loss of what to say for possibly the first time in her life. She must have expected something different from someone so likable.

“Marg was just telling me that she’d love to run a business like this one day,” I fill in. “She was curious, did you go to business school before starting the Mockingbird?”

I can sense Margaery’s sharp glare well enough without having to turn my line of sight from Petyr. He smiles warmly.

“Yes,” he tells us, “and no. I was… injured in my last semester and couldn’t complete my degree. I never went back. Rather unfortunate.”

He says it casually, but something about the words makes me think there is more to the story, and more hurt than he is letting on. 

“But you don’t need a university degree to own a business,” he continues, “or to work in business. You don’t need a degree to be successful.”

“I wish someone would tell my grandmother that,” Margaery huffs.

“It’s true. No amount of time or money you give for a piece of paper will guarantee success. Success is about your intelligence and what you do with it. It’s about what you’re willing to do to get what you want— how far you’ll go with what you have. You just have to be smarter.”

Margaery is on his every word, nodding. “Totally.”

“If you’re really interested in business, I’d be happy to give you pointers. Any time,” he leans back, “any time at all.”

I hold back a laugh. He’s won her over in sixty seconds flat.

“You know, I’ve never actually said this, but I think I’m too smart for school,” Margaery says, now leaning forward. I do laugh at this.

“Really!” she protests, about to plunge into her argument.

“I’m laughing because I think you’re right!” I explain, ready to elaborate when my purse starts to vibrate against my leg, stopping me. Someone’s calling me.

I want to ignore it, but the fact that someone’s calling me worries me enough to take out my phone and check the caller ID.

It’s… Gendry?

“Gendry’s calling me,” I wonder aloud. I feel them both stop and look at me. “I’ll be right back.”

I get up quickly and head towards the stairwell where there will be less noise. I brush by club goers and employees alike as I struggle to get outside the doors of the second tier before the call goes to voicemail. I answer right as I step onto the landing.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Sansa… it’s Gendry,” he apologizes. Is he… out of breath?

“Hey, Gendry, what’s up? Everything okay?”

“Well, actually, um…” Okay, he’s definitely out of breath. “… I don’t know. I’m sorry, I hope I’m not bothering you or anything, it’s just I didn’t really know who to call, I just figured you might know what to do—”

“Tell me what’s happening and maybe I will,” I urge him.

All I get in response is labored breathing.

“Are you with Arya?” I urge further.

“Yeah—” Gendry is cut off by another voice, a female voice, clearly yelling but too far away for me to make out the meaning. “She’s sort of running away from me right now.”

I prioritize my many questions. Okay. “Where are you?”

“Uh— Santa Monica.”

“Why is she running?”

“There was this fight at this party, she was upset, I tried to talk her down but I—” He pants for a beat. “—I think I said the wrong thing. She stormed off on and I followed her because we’re in a sketchy area and she’s— well, she wants me to leave her alone but I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

Seven hells.

“Is she drunk?”

“Yeah,” Gendry says resignedly, not bothering to justify or defend himself.

“Whose party?”

“A friend of mine from school.”

“Who was in the fight?”

“I don’t know… I don’t how it started but it ended with Arya punching Joffrey Baratheon in the face. There were more people involved, though, and she might’ve pushed one of his friends in the pool… I think her phone’s at the bottom of the pool, too…there was a lot, I don’t know. I think it kept escalating and I’m pretty sure the cops were called but we left before they got there.”

May the Mother have mercy. I choke down my frustration.

“Where are you exactly?”

“I don’t know, we’ve been walking for a while. If I follow her too closely she wigs out, so I’ve been keeping a block behind her.”

“Okay, listen. Put me on speakerphone. Tell me when you’re done.”

“You’re on.”

“Send me your location and enable the live tracking feature. Do you know how?”

“Yeah. Okay… okay, done.”

“I’m coming to you, but it’ll take twenty or thirty minutes. Keep following her and get her to stop if you can.”

“Okay. Thank you, Sansa.”

“Call me if anything else happens. I’ll see you soon.”

I hang up.

Fuck.

It’s not Gendry’s fault that Arya went berserk, but I can’t help but feel irritated with him anyways. I thought Arya might grow out of her tendency to punch first, ask questions later, and maybe she still will. As horrified as I am by it all, a small rush of pride blooms in me when I imagine Arya punching Joffrey in the face. I know from experience that Arya hits hard. Like, savagely hard.

My mouth twists into an involuntary little smile.

I notice then the employee standing beside the door— a brunette woman, not the same as the one posted last night— pretending not to have been watching me. I acknowledge her awkwardly and make my way back inside the club.

Petyr rises from his seat as I approach. 

“Hey! Is everything okay?” Margaery asks.

“Yes— well… it will be,” I answer with my bravest face, smiling. “I’m afraid I have to go now, though.”

I turn to Petyr and feel the familiar overwhelming rush of what it is like to be near him. Looking at him makes it hard to focus on anything else, especially when he’s looking back. I feel literally drawn to him, finding myself drifting closer as I address him. “Thank you for everything, I’m sorry I’m leaving so soon.” 

“Woah, woah, woah— where are we going?” Margaery asks, indignant.

“Arya’s in trouble,” I explain, “and you’re not coming, Marg. Sorry.”

She doesn’t protest. Marg’s presence in the coming altercation would not be welcome by either of them, and I know she’d rather stay here anyway.

“Trouble? Is everything alright, can I help?” Petyr asks.

“It’s really alright, I just need to go get her.” 

He doesn’t look convinced, and I can sense some level of concern. I don’t want to leave. I want to stay and talk and laugh and just… be close. I look away. I’m sad; this is stupid.

“I’ll see you both later,” I say to the ground, grabbing my things.

“Flick Arya for me,” Margaery says, laying back in her seat.

I laugh weakly and turn once more for the exit. Petyr wordlessly walks with me, opening the door for me when we reach it.

“Thanks,” I say quietly on the other side. When I look at him, he is smiling at me like I’ve said something to amuse him. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says, still smiling. I tilt my head at him, but he only smiles wider and takes his fingers under my chin, manually tilting it back in place.

“I don’t want to go,” I laugh in a whisper, trying to be honest without sounding pathetic.

He lets go. “I’m glad you came at all. Is there really nothing I can do to help?”

I lean in and press a light kiss to the corner of his mouth, then smile.

“No. Thank you.” I go to step around him towards the final flight of stairs, but his hand comes to my side and stops me.

“Call me if you change your mind. Or just call me. Whenever. You have my number.”

I laugh. “I do. I’ll use it.” 

“Good,” he says, and lets his hand slip from my side.

With a final look, I descend the stairs, sharply aware of the lack of warmth where his hand had been.

  


***

—————————

***

I’m the first one to talk.

“Did you break his nose?”

“What?”

“Joffrey, did you break his nose?”

Arya just slumps and looks out the window sullenly, silently studying the 10. Finally, mumbling, “Don’t think so. Definitely a black eye. Maybe two.”

I smile. Being mad at this point would be counterproductive. I’d run out of energy for anger by the time I’d driven all the way to the Denny’s that Gendry had convinced Arya to stop at. Now I’m mostly just worried for Arya, and admittedly pretty curious.

I sent Gendry home in an Uber as soon as I got Arya to willingly get into my car. The guy looked beat. I purposefully didn’t ask him for details, just thanked him.

“That’s a shame.”

This perks her up slightly. “You’re not mad?”

I smile. “How’d he react?”

She laughs. “Like a pussy.”

Of course he did. “Do I want to know the reason for the fight?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

I signal to get into the right lane for the upcoming interchange. “Alright.”

There’s a comfortable silence for a long while.

“You’re lucky Gendry called me and not Robb. Or Dad.” 

“He’d never call either of them,” she says with a rather dark confidence.

“And why not?”

“They don’t like him, Sansa,” she explains as though she’s annoyed at my not knowing the obvious.

“That’s not true,” I protest. I know Robb is a little resistant to anyone dating Arya, but I don’t think either him or Dad could ever actually dislike the guy. I even told Gendry as much yesterday.

“They think he’s way too old for me,” Arya sighs, slouching down further into the passenger seat.

I know if I looked in a mirror right now, I’d see my own face go white.

I clear my throat. “Really? How old is Gendry exactly, anyway?”

“Nineteen,” she says, voice obstructed by her arms crossed in front of her face, “almost twenty.”

“Huh.” I take the exit for Hollywood Boulevard. “And they told you this? Robb and Dad?”

“What, you too?” Arya snaps.

“No! No,” I reassure her, “I really like Gendry.”

She _hmphs_ and turns toward the window.

We’re almost to our apartment building when Arya’s muffled voice emerges from the ball she’s contorted herself into. “I didn’t mean to get into a fight.”

“I believe you.”

“He deserved it.”

“I believe that.”

“I know this is going to come back and bite me in the ass. I know that. I just… I just couldn’t _not_ do anything.”

“We’ll deal with it if it comes to that,” I say, pulling into the parking garage. I don’t know where all this kindness for my sister is coming from, but it seems to be doing good and it feels good. It’s nice. “We’re here.”

Arya unbuckles herself and gives an almost inaudible “thanks” as she rolls out of the car. 

I notice how incredibly tired she looks in the light of the elevator and again wonder exactly what must’ve happened tonight. Her posture sags and she has dark bags under her eyes, yes, but she also carries an aura of weariness too heavy for any sixteen year old to bear. I feel the sudden urge to hug her close to me but suppress it with my better judgement. 

I offer to stay with her when we reach her door, but unsurprisingly she declines.

By the time I step into my own apartment, it’s been over two hours total since I left the Mockingbird. They’re probably getting ready to close if not already closed, so it’s useless to consider going back. I kick off my shoes with a sigh and walk to the refrigerator to take a quick inventory of its contents.

I’m squinting at the expiration date on a package of microwavable noodles when I hear it— voices, movement. Quite close. Here?

I whip around, looking for some kind of— there. Margaery’s purse settled in the corner of the couch. She’s home and she’s apparently brought someone with her. 

I want to scream.

I stalk to the TV, turn it on, and raise the volume to a decent level for some background noise. I can’t help but feel a bit bitter about the way tonight has gone down. I was there, with him. I was with Petyr and now I’m here, sinking into my couch, unwilling to go to my actual bedroom for fear of its shared wall with Margaery’s. Hells, Margaery spent more time with him tonight than I did.

I slowly reach for my phone and check the time. It’s past the club’s closing. I enter our text conversation and start typing—

 **S. Stark:** _Tonight was—_

Before I’m done typing and can press send, a new message appears.

 **P. Baelish:** _Wrapping up for the night. Is everything is alright with your sister?_

I erase my previous text in progress.

**S. Stark:** _She’s fine, thank you— indestructible, really._

**S. Stark:** _I hope Margaery didn’t talk your ear off as soon as I left._

He ignores my second comment.

 **P. Baelish:** _And you? Indestructible?_

Ha.

 **S. Stark:** _Hardly— I’m fine though, just wish I could’ve stayed._

 **P. Baelish:** _Already so fond of the club?_

 **S. Stark:** _Yes, simply devastated to be parted from it._

I smile to myself and hope the humor translates.

 **S. Stark:** _Mostly fond of the the man behind it, but yes… his club is nice, too._

**P. Baelish:** _Sadly his club is closed for the night, but I hear the second-best place is his house._

 **P. Baelish:** _Would you like to see it?_

My stomach does a flip.

 **S. Stark:** _What, now?_

I find my grip tightening on my phone. I jump a little when the thing starts vibrating in my hand; the text window is swiftly replaced by an incoming call from Petyr Baelish. I try to ignore the rush of nerves this causes and take a quick breath before answering.

“Petyr?”

“Did you make it home alright?” His voice, even through the phone, warms me.

“Yeah,” I say, “I got Arya, she’s fine. We’re both home safe now.” 

“Good.” I hear the low background noise cut to silence on his end. A radio? “I’m downstairs.”

“Downstairs,” I repeat. “Here? Right now?”

“Here,” he affirms, “Right now.” I feel a stupid grin spread across my face.

“Okay,” I say, "I’ll be down in five minutes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got very stuck but I'm not abandoning this fic :) Next chapter is coming very soon!
> 
> Thank you for the encouragements <3


	10. it's you and me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can tell she can sense this is going somewhere, but she says nothing. Her focus zeroes in, eyebrows coming together slightly. I wait a moment longer than I need to.
> 
> “Did you not?” 
> 
> “I did,” she answers carefully, a smile barely touching the corners of her mouth.
> 
> “So,” I say, letting each word take its sweet time to achieve the desired effect. “I would like your honest thoughts, or an honest guess. What do you think happens when you tease Daddy?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for my own peace of mind-- sexual explicitness, daddy kink, corporeal punishment, etc.

10  
Petyr 

Sansa rounds the corner of the parking garage and starts down the aisle in my direction.

An absent-minded smile plays across her lips and she’s changed into a thin tee shirt and flared skirt that sways about her hips as she walks. It’s magical— she is so _bright._

It still surprises every time I look at her. The contrast of her skin and her hair and the pink in her cheeks lends her the impression of freshness, of purity, of a certain raw beauty, of… of youth. It’s youth. It emanates from her and clouds me like a heavy fog. 

I shift my weight, drawing her eye. She sees me and smiles, and I can only stand there and feel lucky to be the person receiving it.

“Hi,” she tests softly, coming up beside me.

I reach and pull her the rest of the way to me, unable to help myself, and kiss her. All I can register outside of the feel of her lips is her strawberry-sugar scent wrapping around me and the light weight of her hand on my shoulder. I pull back after a long moment but hold on to her still so she doesn’t drift away.

“Hi,” I answer.

“You’re here.” Her glowing little face is so close and gentle that it’s hard to keep from leaning forward again and abandoning any hope of civilized conversation.

“I’m here,” I affirm. “Get in.”

The drive isn’t long, especially at this hour with such little traffic. The sight of Sansa in my passenger seat, even just in my peripheral vision, is wildly distracting, but gives me a strong and singular kind of joy. 

I ask her about Arya as I drive, who apparently punched Joffrey Baratheon in the face at a house party in Santa Monica. Beyond who punched who, Sansa doesn’t seem to have any kind of useful information as to the source of the dispute or whose party it was or why the boy-brat was there to begin with. I make a mental note to look into it later. I’ll probably be hearing about it from one Lannister or another soon enough.

She turns her body a bit to face me, and of course I notice that it causes her skirt to ride further up her thighs. I keep my gaze determinedly focused ahead.

“She hates me, but she needs me,” she sighs. “She needs someone, at least.”

“Not your parents? Not your mother or father?”

Sansa scoffs, clearly not deigning to dignify the question with an answer. She sweeps her hair over one shoulder, sending a subtle scented wave of its sweetness towards me.

“And did you need someone when you were her age?”

I see from the corner of my eye her fingers start fiddling with the hem of her skirt.

“I had Margaery,” she says confidently, though a faint hollowness echoes behind the words.

“That’s different, though, isn’t it? Not quite the same.”

“Same as what?”

I’m spared having to answer by her distraction as we pull into the driveway.

“This is your place?” she asks, sitting up with interest.

I put the car in park. “Indeed.”

She makes a small noise of absentminded acknowledgment. I sense quiet nerves rolling off her, which pains me. I get out of the car and come around to her side to help her into the house.

The house itself is unquestionably a nice one, but truly nothing too special, especially on the outside. Expensive, yes, but that’s mostly due to its location— it’s Hollywood, after all. And due to the view, I suppose. Most of the price comes from the elevated vantage point it has over the city— something you can’t exactly see from the front.

Sansa is rather quiet as I unlock the front door, but grabs my arm for stability and guidance as we step inside and into the dark. It makes me smile.

The lights go on and I watch her face, which, after a quick glance around to orient herself, turns straight to mine.

“Fancy,” she jokes lightly. She looks so adorably expectant, a cross between curious and anxious. 

“Why thank you,” I say grandly, like I’m absolutely charmed, hoping to comfort her hidden nerves. “You’re most welcome here. Make yourself comfortable.”

She giggles at this and follows my gaze to the direction of the living room.

“Shoes-off household?”

“Yes,” I say for some reason, even though it’s not. “Please.”

I watch self-indulgently as she leans down and unties her boots. It feels good to see her here. It feels good to have her. 

“How long have you lived here?” She asks, standing up.

“This house? Four years, maybe. Before then I was nearer Lannisport. I decided it was maybe a little too close.” I smile to myself. “I still have it, though. I just like feeling a bit more removed now, I think.”

“You have two houses?”

“And an apartment.”

She looks at me with wide eyes as if I’ve just told her that I own a chain of hotels on the moon. I don’t bring up the other miscellaneous places.

“In Hollywood?”

“I’m good with finances.”

“Yeah,” she laughs incredulously.

“They’re mostly investments, really. I rent them out from time to time. They’re more business than fun,” I try to explain.

She looks at me with a thousand questions but doesn’t ask any of them. “Huh.”

“Do you want anything?” I gesture to the kitchen on my left. Then, apologetically, “I’m not the best at keeping proper food in the house, but I—” 

“No, it’s okay! I’m fine,” she interrupts, “thank you.”

I disregard this and walk into the kitchen anyway to pour two glasses of water. I set them down on the counter and wait for her to come to me.

Barefoot, Sansa cautiously enters the room and grabs a glass. “Thanks.”

The lighting is more even in here and I can see the details of her face in perfect detail as she takes a sip of water. It’s so small a thing, so simple, but so lovely. She catches me looking and narrows her eyes, smiling. 

“How are we ever going to work together now?”

“What do you mean?” 

She looks at me like _’really?’_ because she very well knows that I very well know what she means.

I smile. “We’re going to work wonderfully together. I know it.”

“Oh, you know it?” She leans against the counter.

I sigh— not in frustration but in contemplation.

“Sansa, you and I… we’re our own team now. It’s you and me. You understand?” 

Sansa nods. “I understand.” 

The smile she gives me then thaws something in my very core I hadn’t realized was frozen. I can feel it. It’s strange. I don’t let it show.

“Good.” I shift gears. “Now. What do you think of Lannisport?”

She she sets down her glass and looks at me curiously. “Lannisport… Pictures?”

“Yes, and be honest.”

“You first.”

I laugh shortly. “Sorry?”

“I know you’re asking me for a reason.”

Cheeky little thing. I don’t entertain it.

“Do you like working for them? Are you happy?”

“Am I _happy?_ ”

“Yes,” I say, rolling my shoulders back.

“I… I have no allegiance to the Lannisters or anything they own.” Her tone has an unexpected note of steel in it. “Why?”

Interesting. Predictable, but still interesting. “What do you want, then? Why are you there?” 

She considers me carefully. “I… I just want to learn enough to be able to leave and go someplace better. I want to _be_ better.” Then, lower, in a humorless laugh, “I really wouldn’t mind watching the place burn, though, either.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“I don’t have anything against the employees, or the work they do,” she clarifies, “it’s just the family. My parents want to play nice and they, well… you know, don’t you? But I just can’t, not anymore.” 

I do know. 

The Starks and Lannisters have a long-standing mutually beneficial business relationship between their companies. Both are big names in the business, though the latter is much wealthier and more well-known to the public.

Sansa’s thick-headed father was recently taken to court over a claim of embezzlement— not directly from the Lannisters, of course. They’d deny any involvement in such a disgraceful matter. The truth is, though, is that it was retaliation. Pure and simple. Ned jeopardized an important company move and was taught a lesson through public humiliation. 

The evidence in the case was entirely fabricated— I would know, I arranged most of it.

I don’t feel bad about it. It could’ve been much, much worse. The man got in the way of things he shouldn’t have— it was messy, yes, it was unfortunate, yes, but now it’s over. The charges were dropped quick enough and the only real damage it did was blow the dust off of some latent issues between them that were already there. I didn’t create any new problems, only revealed them.

The families’ affairs are so entwined at this point that a single disturbance of its shaky foundations could take down both entities. Their business models and livelihoods are so fundamentally reliant on one another that it’d essentially be mutually assured destruction. Even Arya’s little stunt— an innocent teenage squabble, really— may cause serious problems yet to be seen. 

How much does Sansa really know?

“I know,” I say, reaching out to push a stray piece of hair from her eyes. “I know.”

I let the silence settle, waiting to see what it’ll give me, if anything. It gives.

“I just… is that bad? Mom and Dad wanted me to— well, getting me the job there was like a gesture of good will, wasn’t it? I’m like some physical manifestation of their happy partnership. A ‘thanks for the business’ sort of thing. I mean, I wanted to work in the film industry anyway but sometimes I think I’m only there because the Lannisters want to keep a Stark on their shelf, because they want to prove something.”

I don’t say it, but she’s somewhat right. She’s definitely earned her place in the office, but the way I helped get her hired in the first place was by playing that very angle. Everyone involved likes to pretend that her place in the company (and at one point on Joffrey’s arm) wasn’t essentially a thinly-veiled Battleship move, but that’s what it was. Her value there is more symbolic than practical, but what she represents is more valuable than she realizes, if she realizes at all. 

It’s all appearances. The Starks think they’re showing their appreciation by allowing their daughter to live very publicly under the other family’s influence— all the other Stark kids are either too young to work or work solely for their father, after all. But not Sansa. The Lannisters, in return, think they’re showing their appreciation by giving the girl the resources and the leg-up she needs to succeed in their ranks. It all seems very friendly, indeed. 

In reality, the Starks are using Sansa as a show of good faith and commitment to their alliance while the Lannisters are holding them to it in front of the whole wide world to witness, dangling the girl in their grasp. The stakes are larger than just Sansa, though. It’s publicity, it’s diplomacy, it’s power, it’s family, and it is _personal._ But what it looks like is a girl and a job. No one would ever admit that it was anything more.

Sansa sleeps in the lion’s mouth. I don’t think she realizes it. That may be for the best.

“And that’s without everything with Joffrey,” she adds, eyes boring into the counter.

“It’s not bad,” I reassure her. “It’s not. You have a good instinct.”

“I can tell when stuff is happening, you know. I know that lawsuit in February wasn’t a random misunderstanding like I’m supposed to believe. Nobody ever tells me anything, but I’m not stupid. I know they were behind it. They don’t like my dad. They threatened him, and yet he’s telling me to stay. So I do.”

I nod sympathetically.

I’m not surprised her parents have kept the truth from her. That entire stock’s conservative family values stop any productive communication from happening between them. I have no doubt the intention was to protect her, but Eddard Stark is too optimistic. He expects the whole world to adhere to the same moral code he chooses to follow. He sees right past reason. He lacks the imagination necessary to anticipate that which truly exists. It’ll get him killed, and Sansa should not suffer for that.

Sansa is the hinge between two of the most powerful and wealthy entities in the international entertainment industry, yet she hasn’t been shaped by her own family and remains unsympathetic to the other. She is a blank canvas, unmolded clay, a loaded gun. And she is already on my page. In a way, she is already mine. 

I grab hold of her wrist.

“We want the same thing.”

She looks up.

“Ask me what I want, Sansa.”

I can sense the timid little _’what?’_ about to leave her lips, but I don’t have the patience.

“Ask me what I _want,_ ” I push, stepping closer. “Ask.”

“Wh— what do you want?”

I scan her face. This is the best way. 

“Money,” I say evenly, honestly, without shame or self-judgement. “Power.” I will lay it out in the clearest terms that exist. “Respect.” I smile at the ridiculousness of hearing that aloud. “You.” I don’t let her look away. “And Lannisport Pictures… to begin with.” 

She holds my gaze for a long quiet moment, uncertainty hovering heavy above us. 

Then, with the most precious little laugh, “Well, I can at least help you with the last two.”

I smile genuinely. “You will?”

“Yeah, that’s what I want, too.”

I grin wider, close the short distance that separates us, and press a short but fierce kiss on her.

I leave it there and don’t allow her any further thought of it. “Good.”

I leave it there because I cannot explain to her what I need to explain, not in this very moment. I can’t explain that she’ll never be able to know all of it; I can’t explain that it’s impossible for anyone to truly be ‘in’ with me. But she’ll come the closest anyone has. I’ll protect her. I wanted to know where she stood and so now I do. But it’s always more complicated than that.

She leans forward and presses her head against my chest under my chin and for a moment her Sansa-ness simply overwhelms me.

I stroke her hair and feel the warmth of her cheek against me. Then, painfully, overwhelmingly, a sharp and sudden fragmented memory flashes unbidden across my vision— soft red hair, pale skin, but another face. Other plans. A long-past time.

I twist a lock of hair around my finger— its red is woven with gold, not burgundy. It belongs to her, it belongs to Sansa.

An incredible girl. Intelligent, insightful, but still so very young. She understands a lot about the world, but still sees it from the eyes of a child because that’s ultimately what she is. Beautiful and sweet and inexperienced. She trusts me with such wholeness that I’m taken aback every time I catch sight of it in her eyes. I’m not sure I deserve it but I’m not letting go of it, either. I don’t care if it’s selfish; she is mine now. I don’t think I could survive otherwise now that I know what it feels like.

“Come on,” I say softly. I walk out of the kitchen and into the living room towards the sofa, pulling her behind me. “I’ll help you, too. You can always ask me for help, whatever it is. I want you to know that. Understand?”

She nods.

“But you must always be honest with me,” I say in a low voice. It’s soft and kind but also a statement of expectation. “Always be honest with me.”

I need her to be. She might be the key to everything.

“I will,” she answers intently, sitting on my left and tucking her feet underneath her to face me. 

“Will you?” Watching her struggle to try and read my face is, I admit, a bit entertaining.

“Yes!” She smiles then, determining that I am playing with her, which I both am and am not. “Yes, of course.”

“Good,” I say, then take her face into my hands. I press a kiss to her lips that is very soft, very light, but lingering. When I pull away, she chases me slightly, realizes it, then pulls back.

She looks embarrassed, which suits her. It really does. The flush flooding her face and her sudden shy posture make me need her much closer all of a sudden, but I hold back.

She ducks her head, sending a rush of red hair spilling over her shoulder, then tucks a chunk behind her ear and looks back up at me with those wide, curious eyes and smiles almost apologetically. She looks like a classical painting of an angel or a nymph— something altogether otherworldly.

“I like your house,” she offers, cheeks growing pinker.

I almost laugh. _Thanks, stay forever._

“You haven’t even seen it,” I counter.

She sits up a little straighter and makes a point to look around the living room, then across the way into the kitchen, the dark office, then into the semi-visible guest room.

“I’ve seen it,” she smiles, and plops back into her comfortable position. “I like it.”

“There’s a whole other floor you haven’t seen. It could be terrible,” I point out.

“Mmm, don’t think it will be. You clearly have good taste.” 

“Smart girl,” I laugh. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“It wasn’t flattery,” she declares, leaning back into the cushions with her head cocked to the side. “It’s a fact. Something I knew before. I don’t think it’s flattery if it’s not intended to be flattery. And I’m already where I want to be, anyway.” 

Unable to help myself, I pull her legs out from under her and throw them over my lap, tugging her closer to me. She squeals a bit at the jolt it gives her, then giggles— a ridiculously magical sound.

“Funny,” I say, “you’re right where I want you to be, too.”

She laughs again and then nothing but a charged silence hums between us. It lasts for what seems like an eternity. It pulls something from me in its depths, something I somehow let be pulled. It slips past the layers of filters, evades all thought of semantics, eludes my better judgement, and rises from me too easily.

“I’m going to give you everything,” I murmur. We’re close now. I can see every little detail in her big blue eyes. I can feel the faint warmth of her breath against my cheek.

“I don’t want ‘everything,’” she says softly, carefully, unmoving. 

Smiling crookedly, “I do.”

Our eyes lock.

For a heartbeat everything seems impossibly still and quiet. 

I watch Sansa’s face change when she reads the look on my own. Her eyes sink deeper in color, her lips part softly, her expression blooms with both hope and fear. It gives me a dark sort of satisfaction to witness. It’s strange, how much pleasure can come from such a little thing. From a look. But it does, it courses through me in deep rivulets and burns behind my ribs. It spreads everywhere.

I bring a hand to the side of her pretty little face, stroking her cheek with my thumb.

“Sansa…” I trail down to her jaw. “You’re my girl,” I say softly, “aren’t you?” 

There’s a beat, then I elaborate.

“Earlier today I asked if you were my girl, and you said yes.” I slide down into the curve of her neck and rest there, skimming my thumb across the soft flesh of her throat. “Do you still feel that way?” 

She nods, her voice sticky. “Yes.”

I feel the vibration of the word in my palm. I smile and move down along her collarbone to her shoulder. I am careful with her. I’m slow— soft, even, as I run along the length of her arm.

“I’m very glad to hear that,” I tell her, close and quiet, like I’m letting her in on a secret. “Because I want that very much. I want you as mine.”

Sansa’s breathing shallows ever so slightly. I hold back the satisfied smile trying to edge its way onto my face.

“And so you are. But I’d like to hear it. From you. Now. So will you please say it, sweetling? Will you please tell me?”

My fingertips reach her thigh, where instead of continuing down the knee, I slip beneath her skirt and rest against the soft, bare skin there. Sansa leans further into me, eyes cloudy but exact thoughts unreadable. 

“I am— I am yours,” she exhales, pleading with soft eyes and offering a brief smile. “I’m your girl.”

I return her smile but the twisted part of me is not yet sated. “Again, please, sweetling. I… just love hearing it so much.”

Sansa is still for a long moment, watching my face, then seems to gather her courage and carefully shifts herself up and into my lap. When she faces me square on, I can read the challenge, the lust, the insecurity, and the desperate need to please plain behind her eyes. The gentle pressure and all-consuming presence of her is intoxicating. I can’t resist grabbing hold of her despite my plans not to touch.

She looks so vulnerable in this position— her overall shaky posture, her hands balled up in weak fists against my shoulders, her space pressed so close to mine. I appreciate her even more like this— I appreciate beyond words her giving herself to me in this very specific way.

She swallows. 

“I am your girl,” she says more distinctly, though her voice wobbles slightly. Her hands open up from their fists on my shoulders to press with open palms instead. “Your little girl. Yours, your girl, only yours.”

This satisfies something sick and deep and hungry. _‘Your little girl’_ coming out of Sansa’s mouth combined with the feeling of her soft weight pressing into me has made me incredibly, ashamedly hard, and has made everything and anything else in the entire fucking world completely and utterly irrelevant. There is only this.

“Thank you, Sansa.” I reach up and brush some hair from her face. 

“So,” I say, breathing, recounting, “you are my girl. And you’ve promised to always be honest with me.”

I can tell she can sense this is going somewhere, but she says nothing. Her focus zeroes in, eyebrows coming together slightly. I wait a moment longer than I need to.

“Did you not?” 

“I did,” she answers carefully, a smile barely touching the corners of her mouth.

“So,” I say, letting each word take its sweet time to achieve the desired effect. “I would like your honest thoughts, or an honest guess. What do you think happens when you tease Daddy?”

Her mouth drops in surprise and her face floods with renewed color. From the change in her expression I can tell she knows exactly what I’m talking about.

“I—I—” 

“It’s okay,” I reassure her, gratified by her reaction. “Just try. Just guess.”

“You said— you said I was ‘going to regret it,’” she answers quietly, eyes dampening but harboring the tiniest smirk behind them. 

“Going to regret what?”

She look at me as though to make sure I’m serious. I am.

“Going to regret what, Sansa?”

“T-teasing you,” she says, then sees my face and knows it’s not good enough. The smirk disappears. Her eyes fall away from my face. “I’d regret… regret taking your hand… regret letting you… feel me… and then… leaving.” 

“There,” I murmur appreciatively, settling deeper into my domain. “You do know. Thank you.”

Her face is the brightest pink I’ve ever seen it, which only fuels me further. 

“Sorry,” she manages shyly, shifting herself in my lap. I bite down hard into the inside of my cheek.

I bring my hand to the side of her face, guiding her gaze gently back to mine. Holding it there, I consider her.

“It’s alright,” I murmur. “It’s a silly thing, isn’t it?”

Sansa leans forward and kisses me in response, her soft lips pressing firmly into mine before they make their way to my jaw, to my ear, to my neck, and her head comes to rest against my shoulder. I am still.

“I’m sorry,” she repeats plaintively.

I’m not truly mad, of course, but there’s a heavy black storm in the pit of my stomach that rages. It calls for an answer to the specific type of hunger she has put there. 

“You’re sorry……?” I ask in the most controlled voice I can manage. There’s a delayed beat of silence, which physically hurts.

I bring her head back level with mine with a gruff hand and drink in the look she gives me— wanting, hopeful, a little afraid. 

Her face is red as all seven hells and she has to look away and down at the collar of my shirt, but that’s okay. It’s okay because her voice is sweet and clear and perfect. 

“I’m sorry, Daddy.”

I bring her mouth down onto mine.

She seems taken aback at first, still timidly holding onto my shoulders as I pull her closer in no graceful manner. Then her soft body presses against mine and I feel her legs flex and readjust to the position. She makes a little surprised sound when I yank her even closer, claiming her mouth with a roughness that dissolves any shred of hesitance or resistance on contact.

Her grip on my shoulders steadies and tightens, if for no other reason than to stabilize herself to keep from keeling over one way or another. I keep one hand around her waist and the other around her head to hold it in place as I push the kiss further.

Sansa is out of breath in seconds. Something low and rippling like a purr vibrates through her and spreads its warmth out into me, adding more dense weight to the black hole in my gut. Still not enough.

I slide my hand around Sansa’s waist slowly across her back, down her leg, up under her skirt, then up her leg again as so to skim the bare expanse of skin of her thigh up to the edge of her panties. I slip my fingers under the fabric at her hip and grab the flesh there. Her softness is almost unbearable.

This gets a noise out of her, though— a real, involuntary one. It’s quiet but desperate. I smile against her lips, which she doesn’t seem to notice. I let my hand trail coarsely across more skin and am rewarded with a little buck of her hips against mine.

I take my other hand and grab her firmly by the waist before slipping it under the hem of her shirt—slowly, incrementally. My fingers have just made it to her ribcage when Sansa whines in the back of her throat and removes her hands from my shoulders and grabs me by the wrist, trying to guide me.

I pull away from the kiss. 

She looks at me with heavy eyes and blinks like she’s trying to clear away a fog.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Nothing,” she says, and when I don’t push the matter, goes back into the kiss. I allow this long enough for her to start rolling her hips again, and when she starts leaning into my hands, I forcibly pull away once more. 

“Are you sure?” My voice is soft and concerned and imperceptibly false.

Sansa looks at me with confusion, flustered. She gives a little shake of her head, but seemingly more to try and think rather than give an answer. Her mouth opens to answer, but none comes.

“Do you want me to touch you, sweetling? Is that it?”

She looks embarrassed, then nods. I tuck a piece of hair behind her ear.

“Alright. I’ll ask again,” I hold her face gently but steadily so she can’t look away. “What happens… when you tease… Daddy?”

Sansa, eyes burning brightly, barely covers the little slice of wicked smile before pressing her lips together seriously.

“I said I was— I mean, I’m sorry I teased you.”

“Oh?”

“I won’t do it again.” Sansa rests her hands low against my stomach and looks at me with those clear, innocent eyes.

I throb almost painfully at the sight. _You only make me want to hurt you more when you look at me like that._ But I don’t want to hurt her, really. At least not today. I take a measured breath.

“You won’t?”

“No, Daddy, I won’t,” she breathes, laying it on real thick now.

A long moment passes where Sansa waits for my next words. I take my thumb along her bottom lip and give her a regretful smile.

“What happens,” I say softly, like I’m so very sorry, “is that I must punish you.” 

Her cheeks go deliciously pink; I can feel her skin get hotter in my hand.

“It’s the only way I’ll believe it,” I explain gently. “Do you understand?”

She swallows and whispers, “Okay.”

“Okay?” I ask to make sure.

She nods. 

I take a deep breath, feeling her pulse in my palm where her neck meets her jaw. Soft. Quick. Delicate. Mine. I lower my hand. 

Good. 

“Get on the floor.”

Sansa, after a small moment of hesitation, does exactly as she’s told, even if rather haltingly. She glances at my face a couple times in the process to make sure she’s doing the right thing, but I don’t give any indication one way or another. I just watch.

“On your knees.”

She arranges herself right in front of me, at my feet. When she’s done, she looks up at me, wide-eyed, and I can’t help but smile at the sight of it. She’s perfect.

“Good girl.” 

This gets a shy little smile out of her, though her chest rises and falls in heavy breaths.

“Raise your arms,” I instruct.

She does. I lean forward and take the hem of her t-shirt and gently lift it over her head. She moves with me to help make it easier.

Underneath she wears a plain white cotton bra. The shape of her raised nipples show through the thin fabric, which I momentarily stop to admire before reaching around her back and unhooking the clasp. I get it fairly easily and guide the straps off and over her arms until Sansa is kneeling in front of me, topless.

She looks so beautifully vulnerable like this, half naked, kneeling at my feet, and looking at me like… that. Seven hells. All she’s doing is looking at me. 

I lean back.

“What punishment do you think is appropriate, Sansa?” I ask.

She looks at me like I’ve given her a trick question. A trick question or a test. I smile.

“It’s okay. You can say.”

“I don’t know,” she answers in a small voice. “I don’t know anything about them.”

_Oh, sweetling._

“You teased me. I teased you.” I think aloud, then sigh. Need courses through me, screams at me. “But Daddy is still frustrated. Daddy needs to show you how frustrated he is so that you know.”

I reach out and stroke Sansa’s cheek once more, the violence of the storm gathering speed, threatening to send me over.

“Come up here, sweetling. Right across here.”

I separate my legs a few inches further apart and pull her towards my right leg. She again glances to my face for direction and assurance, and this time I give it. 

“Here,” I nod, guiding her atop my thigh so that she straddles it, facing me. It’s an odd position, understandably, but that’s because it’s not quite right yet. I pull her torso flat across the rest of my lap in one swift motion, which in turn leaves one leg draped to the floor in counterbalance behind her while the other stays hitched up around my leg.

Sansa whimpers a little in the sudden, rough position. Her backside is what’s left most elevated across my knee— I stroke her soothingly before flipping up her skirt to reveal the bare skin underneath.

Her panties are a delightful, girlish light-pink color but decidedly racy with elaborate lace and, wonderfully, partially wet. I shut my eyes briefly. Slowly, I run my fingers along the fabric there with a light pressure, eliciting a muffled little noise from the girl over my knee.

“Such a good girl…” I murmur, feeling her on my fingers and aching, “…such a shame.”

I can see, even with her turned around, the distinct pace of her breath.

“Daddy’s going to hit you six times,” I hear myself say.

“It’s so you can learn,” I continue, feeling myself slipping almost out of body. 

Then, with clarity, I ask, “Do you want to learn, sweetling? Do you want that?”

“Yes,” she responds immediately, high-pitched and breathless.

I reach for Sansa’s hair and push it to one side so that I can see her face. Good. Then I look back.

I don’t warm her up. I smooth my hand over the pale skin. I take it away, pause. Then I bring my hand down, hard. The noise is sharp and loud and satisfying.

_One._

Only a tiny squeak comes from Sansa. I look over to her for any sign of real displeasure but she just keeps her forehead pressed to the sofa.

I move my hand a couple inches down from the last impact site, closer to her thighs. Again, I map the skin with the trace of my fingertips before I stop and pause— then I bring my hand down, open-palmed, hard. Harder than the first. Considerably harder.

_Two._

Sansa flinches properly this time, and I’m rewarded with a low little moan. I smile and soothe the spot with light and gentle fingers.

“Four more, sweetling. Will you tell me why we’re here?”

I want to hear her say it. I want to hear the words.

“I teased you,” she whispers. “That was bad.”

“Good,” I say, pleased, and strike again with the same amount of force as previous.

_Three._

Sansa whines long and low under her breath, sending the sound vibrating through her body and into mine. It is so fucking sad-sounding but sings in my ears.

“Why was it bad?” I prod. This is too much fun.

I let her catch her breath, keeping a casually possessive hand atop the red marks blooming on her pale skin. My own hand stings slightly.

“‘Cause it’s rude,” she says, but says it like she’s unsure. 

“That’s true,” I concede, and spank her on the other cheek, this time at an angle that’ll hit more like a bruise than a sting. “Why?”

_Four._

She whimpers. “Because… Because… Daddy gets frustrated.”

She is so beautiful right now. I stroke the hair from her face, admiring her glow, the thin shine in her big blue eyes, the feeling of this moment. 

“Yes, sweetling, that’s correct,” I say with a fondness unlike any other.

She makes a small, pathetic little noise in response, head pressing into the sofa.

I move my hand back down to choose the fifth spot and I notice it— Sansa’s panties have become entirely wet. In a strange way, my hearts warms at this. It really does.

I spank her again with a blunt force. 

_Five._

She gives a weak whine followed by an incoherent mumble.

“One more, only one more.” I promise, stroking her.

I catch the edge of a smile under the tangle of hair strewn over her face.

“Anything else? Now’s your chance,” I say low into her ear.

“I’m sorry,” she moans in a whisper. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Won’t tease again. Won’t. It was bad. I’m sorry.”

Her words are slick in her mouth, melting together and tasting of raw want. Adorable.

“All is forgiven,” I say through the thick haze rolling over me, and deliver the final strike.

_Six._

A moment of quiet. I’m aware of the pulse drumming in my neck. I’m aware of the beautiful girl sprawled across my lap, the flowering marks on her skin, and the aching erection pressing mercilessly against her.

“All done now.” Softly, appreciatively. “You’ve been so good.”

She sits up slowly with a bit of my help, then turns to meet my gaze with a look on her face that I’ve never seen before. At first glance it’s almost empty, but something is fighting its way across.

“Are you okay, sweetling?”

She nods but looks like she’s about to cry. I wrap my arms around her waist and tug her towards me, concerned. She rests her hands on my chest in return and makes a pained noise at the motion.

She’s barely audible. “So… you can touch me now?”

I so adore this girl. I kiss her in answer, reaching around to find the zipper to her skirt and undoing it. It’s loose enough to be slipped over her head and gets tossed who knows where.

“Yes,” I tell her definitively in between breaths.

Her arms wrap themselves into a vice grip around my neck, pulling herself as close to me as she possibly can. Her mouth is desperate on mine, her legs clenching tightly around either side my hips. I’m a little surprised at her ferocity, but I welcome it. I let my own hands splay wide against the bare expanse of her back, feeling the ridges of her ribs slide under the skin against my fingertips as she moves. It reminds me of her fragility, but also of her wholeness. I hold the entirety of Sansa Stark in my arms. It’s really quite a thing.

I break away just long enough to say, “Time to see the upstairs, come on.”

Then, hand in hand, we ascend the staircase, Sansa trailing behind me. I hear a happy noise from her and look back and see her smiling to herself as she keeps her gaze down, watching her step. It fills me with warmth.

I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy. 

I don’t think I’ve ever cared about another person this way.

Which means I’ve never had this much to lose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 😈😈😈
> 
> Writing this makes me happy, thanks for reading and caring about it too! Seriously!
> 
> Also, a heads up-- I'll likely be focusing a little less on the smutty stuff in the coming chapters. It won't go away completely, I'm just trying to follow the path that I feel tugging me going forward :)


	11. make your own rules

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ... What I do know is that he is not the nice man that comes to work every day, that he’s not the person I knew growing up, and that he's certainly not the man my mother thinks she knows. I swallow.
> 
> “I don’t think you’re ‘nice,’” I say. “I don’t think you’re very nice at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings— very sexually explicit, roughness, strong daddy kink, author is a grade A dumbass, should've made this multiple chapters, looking back like 3 whole ass chapters tbh, sorry about that

 

11  
Sansa

It’s dark when my eyes open.

The first thing they focus on is the valley of lights outside the window, stretching vast beyond the balcony.

_The city of angels, asleep._

I remember I’m at Petyr’s house.

It’s strangely quiet. I suppose I’m so used to the constant noise and traffic of my own apartment that the stillness feels foreign. I take a deep breath, feel the slight breeze from the open balcony, and pull the blanket around me closer in a moment that feels suspended from time. For a second I feel pulled from reality, like I’m outside the world looking down on it.

I know without looking that Petyr isn’t next to me, or in the room. I couldn’t say how I know, but I do.

I sit up slowly and listen. He’s downstairs.

I consider finding a T-shirt or something from a drawer to put on, but opt instead to pull on the dress shirt I see draped over the chair in the corner. I wouldn’t feel quite right going through his things. Before I step into the lit hallway, I self-consciously run a hand through my hair a couple of times, then decide to back-track to the bathroom inside the bedroom.

I have to squint for a moment to adjust to the bright light, ruining my dark and quiet mood. My reflection looks back at me with suspicion. Her hair is loose and wild, her right cheekbone a bit pink where it was pressed against the pillow. Messy, but fine. I secure another shirt button further up my chest. It reaches my thighs, but barely; it’ll have to do. I stare blankly at myself for another empty moment, then turn off the light and head downstairs.

I’m only a few steps down when I jump at the sight of Petyr right in front of me, ascending the staircase with a laptop and newspaper under one arm, a cup of coffee in the other.

“You’re up,” he notes with an amused smile.

He walks right past me back into the bedroom, leaving me to turn back around to follow him. I stop in the doorway.

He sets his mug on the nightstand and looks at me like I’ve just stepped into his office— casual, politely expectant.

“It’s early,” he says.

I smile in answer. I don’t know what time it is exactly, but if the paper is already here then it’s at least close to dawn.

“Looks good on you,” he jokes, nodding to the shirt.

“Well, my clothes were downstairs,” I explain unnecessarily, seeing how he was the one who left them there.

He smiles. “Come here.”

I walk to him. He touches the hem of his shirt and looks up at me.

“What are you doing today?”

“I have to go home,” I say, then, clarifying, “to my parents’ house. Family dinner thing.”

He laughs. “You don’t sound very excited.”

I shrug and look down. I’m not, really. Not only are things weird and hectic when it comes to my family but anything not having to do with Petyr honestly feels unimportant. I’m aware of how teenage that sounds, but it’s true.

“I have things I’m not very excited about, either.”

I meet his eyes again. He sighs and grabs my wrists.

“Weekday-weekend distinction means nothing to Tywin Lannister when he feels a matter is urgent.”

He sees the interest spark on my face and laughs. “It’s nothing interesting, trust me. It’s just more preparation for San Fransisco.”

“For the meeting?”

“Well— yes,” he answers, but it sounds like ‘kind of.’ “Have you looked over the list I sent you?”

“Yes,” I say. “Haven’t had time to get too deep into it yet, but I will.”

“Good.” He nods approvingly.

I badly want his affection right now and what I’m getting sounds like the wrap-up of a meeting.

“Well. Thanks for…” My eyes move quickly from the pillows on the bed to the doorway to his hands holding my wrists. “…everything.”

“Sansa.” His voice is warm and low, understanding. He takes my hands and presses them to his lips. “Where ever did you come from, princess?”

I smile at the question, the same he asked our first night together.

Then, as though my body had just been waiting to do it, I sink down, letting my weight rest against him. It feels like a long exhale.

“I’ve been around,” I reply.

I feel his laugh more than I hear it. He strokes my head with a gentle hand and I am satisfied.

 

——————————

Petyr has one of his drivers take me home early.

I don’t have to be at Mom and Dad’s until early afternoon so thankfully I’m able to sleep in my own bed a few hours before having to really get up and ready.

The shower I take is ridiculously long, but it feels amazing and I get out feeling more ready for today than I did before getting in. In the foggy mirror I notice the remnants of marks from last night on my skin, the color somehow a shade darker than they’d been last I looked. I trace my fingers over them and smile idly to myself.

I’m in the kitchen making myself something small to eat when the front door flies open, smashes against the wall, and Margaery bursts into the apartment.

“Sans! Have you seen my credit card?!”

I jump and nearly flip my eggs out of the pan.

“What? Uh, no, don’t think so,” I answer.

Marg looks… not great. It looks like she put on makeup over last night’s makeup. I think her earrings are mismatched.

“Fuck,” she groans and heads back to her bedroom without explanation.

I salt my eggs in silence. When I figure they’re done, I grab a plate from the drying rack because it’s closer than the cupboard and I see it— Marg’s Visa, under a couple of bowls. I’m about to call out to her when I stop to wonder how it would’ve even got there. To the right is the sink and to the left is the microwave; there’s no real counter space to rest a purse or anything for the card to fall out of.

On top of the microwave, though, I notice a plate with a thin layer of suspicious white powder spread across it. A missing credit card and leftover powder.

Well, fuck, Marg.

I stop to consider if it could be anything else. Baking soda? Powdered sugar? A joke? No, it has to be cocaine. It’s only logical. Maybe a variant, but definitely cocaine or cocaine-adjacent. Where did she even get it from?

“Found it!” I call.

She jogs back to the kitchen and takes it from me. “Oh, thank the gods. Where was it?”

I point to the drying rack.

“Huh,” she says. I wait to see if she’s going to say anything.

I can sense her trying to work out whether I’ve worked it out.

She’s taking too long.

“Where did it come from?” I ask lightly. I hate acting like the parent, but I worry about Margaery and her substances sometimes.

“What?”

“Please tell me you didn’t accept drugs from another Uber driver.” I’ve read one too many articles recently about kids our age overdosing on things unknowingly laced with other things.

“I didn’t!”

“Oh, sorry, was it from whoever you brought home last night?”

Margaery’s face darkens. “Are you serious?”

“I’m serious,” I say, dropping my plate on the counter. “A girl I went to school with died last month because the coke she bought was laced with fentanyl and she had no idea. She’d been dead for four days by the time they found her because she lived alone.”

There’s a long quiet moment where Margaery just stands with a hand on her hip, nodding.

Then she laughs. “Well, then. Good thing I don’t live alone.”

 _“Margaery!”_ Is this funny to her? I can deal with her doing club drugs from time to time— hells, I’ve done them a few times with her before— but I always make sure they’re from a safe source. Or as safe as these things get, at least. Margaery trusts too easily.

“I’m not an idiot, Sansa.” She crosses her arms.

“You sure about that?”

She scoffs and looks at me like I’ve slapped her. “Okay, fuck you.”

It’s my duty to knock sense into her, isn’t it? To watch out for her, even when she doesn’t want it? No one else will, I’m sure of that. She’d do it for me.

“Sorry that I don’t want you to _die._ ”

“I’m not going to die!”

“You will if you just keep taking shit from strangers— I mean, pot is one thing but—”

“I didn’t get it from a stranger!” she yells.

“Then who did you get it from?” I yell back, gesturing wildly to the plate.

“Your creepy fucking boyfriend, that’s who!”

There’s a moment of shocked silence where all I can do is look at her in confusion.

“Oh, sorry, are you surprised?” Margaery asks, mocking.

“Petyr?” I ask in a voice that sounds small in my own ears.

“Are you surprised?” she repeats.

I lean on the counter. I guess… I’m not.

The club would be the perfect place to run such a thing. He’s smart, good with money, has connections, has a nightclub within a nightclub, why not this? Why not? It makes sense.

“Oh,” is all that comes out of me. “Okay.”

I see the change on Margaery’s face as she starts to regret what she’s done.

“Sansa…” she starts, but I wave her off.

“It’s okay,” I say with more conviction than I feel, “I’m sorry I doubted you.”

With that, I take my eggs and walk straight past Marg and into my room, leaving her standing alone in the kitchen. I’m not hungry anymore. I leave the plate on my dresser and sit on the edge of my bed.

I’m not really bothered that Petyr presumably runs a side drug-selling business. Honestly, it seems rather on-brand. It just sits strangely with me that Margaery knew about it and I didn’t. Did she know about it before I introduced them? Did it come up after I left? Why didn’t I know? Why do I feel like I’m intruding on something?

It’s not that big of a deal, and honestly could probably be a good thing. Marg having a reliable source for drugs when she must have them is good, especially if the source is someone who I’m close to and could theoretically cut her off if I so wished. But still, I feel like I’ve just found out something I wasn’t supposed to. It’s not a good feeling.

What else am I potentially not supposed to find out? I didn’t really care before, but now…

I suddenly want to get under the covers and stay there for a very long time. Until tomorrow. Until Tuesday. But I can’t, I know I can’t. As if the universe needed to remind me, my phone starts vibrating in my pocket.

 **A. Stark:** _Hey, you’re taking me, right??_  
**A. Stark:** _When are we leaving??_  
**A. Stark:** _Sansa!!_

I consider throwing my phone at the wall.

 **S. Stark:** _Now! Be ready when I knock._

Time to face the family.

 

——————————

_“Jon!”_ Arya screams the second she steps foot out of the car, and sets off running.

I turn off the car and take a moment to collect myself. One deep breath. Two. Three. Then I follow.

The mansion looks the same as it always does. Old, grand, and cold.

It’s situated on a large plot of land with immaculately kept grounds. Lots of old-growth trees canopy large expanses of open grass and clustered gardens. The driveway is long and winds under rows of eucalyptus trees but I’ve parked informally right up front so that the walk to the front door is short.

The breeze sends the scent of the eucalyptus all around me as I ascend the front steps. It smells like home, at least more than it feels like it. The brutalist architecture of the house itself is as massive and imposing and grey as ever, swallowing me whole as I step into the foyer.

Inside, Arya is clinging to Jon like a monkey as he sways her back and forth, grinning. He meets my eye.

“Hey, Sansa,” he laughs as Arya starts to slip down.

“Hey, Jon,” I smile. He’s out of uniform and has the shadow of a beard, which throws me off for a second. It’s not bad-looking, just seems kind of ridiculous at first— like seeing a little kid in a suit. “How’s life?”

“Good,” he answers, letting Arya drop to her feet. “How’s work?”

“Good,” I say, and we both sort of laugh.

“Boring!” Arya declares. “Where’s everyone?”

“I don’t know,” Jon shrugs, “I came with Robb, so I know he’s further inside somewhere—”

“Girls?” comes my mother’s voice. A little part of me instantaneously softens into a younger version of myself at the sound of it.

She emerges from around the corner and breaks into the warmest smile I’ve ever felt when she sees us.

She approaches me first, gently taking my face in her hands at arm’s length. Her eyes study me like she’s checking for damage.

“Oh, Sansa,” she breathes, and embraces me.

“Hi, Mom,” I whisper, remembering what this feels like.

She pulls back and studies me again like before, smoothing my hair. “You look well.”

“Thanks,” I say, a little embarrassed, “so do you.”

She smiles in return, then turns her gaze to Arya.

“Arya, your hair!” she gasps.

Arya awkwardly pats her bob with a panicked expression as Mom descends on her. “Uh— yeah, I cut it.”

I walk down the hall Mom came from, leaving the two of them to debate the haircut. I know everyone else must be back here, probably in the main living room.

I hear a muddled murmur of indistinct voices first, but I'm able to better make out whose they are as I get closer.

“Put that away, Rickon, your brothers and sisters are here.” It’s Dad, his tone gentle and stern like always. Rickon’s whine soon follows, but no protestation.

I enter the living room— a dim, cavernous space glowing with the light of the large fire in the hearth. The hearth itself is ornate and massive, at least as tall as me. It might seem superfluous to have such a thing in southern California, but it really does get cold inside the house, even in the summer. I spent many, many days of my youth in this room simply because the central heating wasn’t adequate within the the ancient infrastructure of the house, and the space heater in my room didn’t always cut it. This very fire was always, going, though. Always. It’s only been a couple months since I’ve last been here but it still feels like stepping into a memory— a girlhood relic, and the antique design of the place only encourages that impression.

Bran and Rickon are sitting on opposites sides of the largest sofa in the center of the room. Bran is hunkered down reading a book on his end while Rickon is scowling and handing an iPad to Dad, who is standing behind him. The first person to see me is Robb, though, whose presence I barely have time to register before he yanks me into a hug from his spot right inside the door.

I yelp. “Robb!”

“Ha!” He squeezes me hard for a painful moment before letting me go. “Happy birthday, lil’ Sansa!”

“That was last week,” I laugh, stepping back.

“Well I didn’t see you last week, and I’m seeing you now,” he beams. He looks genuinely happy to see me, and the fact that he’s said it at all warms my heart. We don’t really celebrate birthdays in our family. It’s just always been that way. People always seem so shocked when it comes up in conversation, but they’d understand if they’d met my dad. Recently, though, us older siblings have started at least acknowledging them amongst ourselves.

“Well… thanks, then,” I say and hope he hears that I mean it.

“You’re a Gemini, did you know that?”

I grin. “So Margaery tells me.”

“You know,” he leans in all serious, “I’m supposedly a Leo.”

“I don’t know what that means,” I admit.

“Me neither,” he says. “Was kind of hoping you might.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“Nah, you could never,” he waves. He’s being particularly nice right now. “How’s Lannisport?”

That’s why. I shift my weight. “Yeah, it’s fine.”

“No one’s giving you a hard time or anything?”

“No, Robb. And before you start asking questions, I don’t know anything useful; I’m a paid intern, remember?”

“Chill out, I’m not drilling you for information. I just want to make sure everything’s okay with— you know.”

“Everything’s fine,” I repeat.

“You’d tell me if it wasn’t, right?”

I don’t want to think about Joffrey. “It’s all fine now.” A thought occurs to me. “But you should ask Arya about him. They got in a fight.”

“What? When? Did she win?”

It’s funny how he immediately knows I meant a fist fight. I’m glad we’re done talking about me.

“Last night. She punched him in the face at a party. I don’t really know much else, but I’m assuming she won. It’s probably the only reason it hasn’t been brought up yet. He’s probably too embarrassed to even—”

“—that cowardly little bitch.”

I scoff. “Yeah, let’s hope he stays that way.”

“You’ve got to keep an eye on her until I can make sure this blows over.”

Uh, hells no. “I’m gonna be in San Fransisco for most of the week, you do it.”

“I can’t, I leave for Oxford tomorrow,” he says, scraping a hand through his hair, all the playfulness bleeding away. “Wait, San Fransisco?”

“Work.”

“You’re a paid intern,” he parrots me with derisive impatience.

“Mr. Baelish is bringing me as an assistant,” I explain.

He looks at me like those words don’t belong together. “Baelish. You mean Littlefinger?”

“Yeah,” I say, moving quickly, “ so I won’t be here to babysit Arya.”

“I wasn’t asking you to babysit her, I just—”

Dad appears at my side and Robb stops mid-sentence. Robb gives me a loaded look—the ever-familiar _‘don’t tell Dad.’_ I reflect it back to him in acknowledgement. Mutual agreement.

“Sansa,” he greets, giving me a warm but reserved smile and a side hug.

“Hi Dad.”

“Is Arya with you?”

“Yeah, she’s talking with Mom right now. Jon’s out there, too.” I lean around him to look at the boys again.

“Hi, Bran,” I call, not expecting any particular excitement from him. “Hi, Rickon.”

“Hi,” Bran calls back without looking up from his book. I have to wonder if the kid has any friends.

Rickon ignores me completely, busy picking the iPad back up from the coffee table while Dad’s back is turned.

“Is Theon coming?” I ask, turning back to Robb. His eyes shift to Dad’s.

“No. He’s with his sister over on the east coast,” Dad says simply.

“Oh,” I say, nodding. I’ll definitely be asking Robb about whatever that was about later.

By the time we all sit down for dinner, I’ve heard about fifty of Bran’s school projects, about the intricacies of Rickon’s martial arts class and Mandarin lessons, and Mom’s new annual event for her nonprofit. I’ve talked myself dry about how my job is going and how I’m faring with Margaery in the city. As per usual, Dad is frustratingly vague about everything except for when it comes to the dry details of one work thing or another or talking about Uncle Ben’s travel news. Arya shoots me a total of five pointed glares throughout the conversation whenever she’s afraid I’ll say something about the many things she’s not supposed to be doing— you know, like drinking or dating or getting into fist fights and who knows what else.

In short, I’m tired. Before we even sit down at the table to eat and start round two of the Stark children interrogation, I’m already wondering what time it is and the earliest it’ll be appropriate to say I have to leave.

I’m sat in between Mom and Bran, directly across from Robb and Jon. Dad sits at the head of the table like always.

Robb is playing nice and telling Dad about the apartment he and his girlfriend have decided to rent in Oxford. It’s apparently got a little garden out front and is in walking distance of all the shops in the area. He’s already scouted the perfect coffee shop for studying. I’m poking at my salmon and wondering what Robb’s life is really like. It can’t be this perfect and clean, can it?

“It’s near the airport, too, so I can get back easily if I ever need to. You know, quickly.”

Arya laughs. “Quickly? Isn’t it a twelve hour flight?”

“Still,” Robb shrugs.

“You don’t need to worry about that,” Dad says.

I look between them.

“Why would he need to worry about that?” I ask.

“He doesn’t,” Dad answers, tone final. “Jon, how’re things in San Diego?”

Jon clears his throat.

“Bran, are you reading?” Mom interrupts.

“No,” Bran answers, but I see the corner of the book in his lap as he tucks it out of sight.

There’s a pause, then Jon continues.

“Things are going well, yeah,” he nods. “I— uh, I actually wanted to tell you, I’m being deployed.”

Arya drops her fork. “Really?”

Dad smiles. It’s fond and maybe a little sad, but proud. This isn’t a huge surprise— it was really just a matter of when it would happen. It’s kind of the point of becoming a Marine, I guess. We never see him, anyway. Still, the thought of him leaving makes me queasy.

Robb, though, looks like he’s been slapped and echoes Arya. “Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

“Where are you going?” Bran asks, now giving his full attention. Rickon looks sad and confused, looking from face to face for some clue of what this means.

“Norway.”

“What?” Robb sounds almost angry.

“Yeah. The Russian border.”

“Why?” Rickon asks.

“‘Winter training.’ It’s part of an agreement Washington made with Norway. Russian anxiety and all. I’ll be there for at least six months, probably at least another six after training.”

“But—” Rickon starts.

“—When? When do you have to go?” Arya interjects.

Jon rubs the scruff on his jaw with an unreadable expression. “Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Arya shrieks.

“Wait, how long have you known about this?” Robb asks. He looks stern, but I can tell he’s gutted.

“Two days. It’s a more advanced notice than most cases. I figured I’d just tell you all at once.”

No one knows quite what to say. Arya looks like she doesn’t know whether to yell or cry. Robb, in his own way, looks pretty much the same. Bran is looking to Dad with a morbid-looking curiosity over what comes next. Mom’s hands are folded neatly in her lap, but I’m close enough where I can see her knuckles turning white.

“We can still talk on the phone, right? Or send letters?” Rickon asks.

Jon smiles. “Yes, absolutely. I don’t know how much access I’ll have for calls a regular basis but I should always be able to get letters, even if a they’re a little delayed.”

“Okay. I’ll send you letters, then.”

“Me, too,” Bran adds.

“Thanks, guys.”

“Good. I’ll make sure to get all the information for that— where to send things and such,” Dad says.

Robb seems to have collected himself. “Well. Be safe, brother.”

Jon gives him a wicked smile in return and for the first time I can really see the excitement he truly has for this. I can see the pride he already holds.

I really do not understand it. I don’t understand how a boy like Jon with family like ours, with the money that comes with us, and with the prospects it gives him would want to join the military. Like, completely voluntarily.

Robb once said something about Jon not feeling like he was one of us, which I think is ridiculous but I guess I can understand if I really try. Biologically he’s our cousin, but he was raised from birth as our sibling. So how different can he really feel? And is it bad enough to warrant giving everything up to be a soldier? And a Marine, at that? I don’t understand Jon’s need for this specific type of fulfillment, one that guarantees him only pain and duty— duty to such a vast organization that’s so easy to get lost in. To be swallowed by.

But something makes me confident that Jon won’t be swallowed. He’s quiet but he’s strong. He has a good head on his shoulders. Different things make different people tick, and if Jon needs some noble, militaristic purpose to keep him ticking then he should have it. I don’t have to understand it, do I? I just have to trust that Jon knows himself enough to have made the right decision.

He’s looking to me, now.

“We’re just really going to miss you,” I say, because it’s true and no one has said it yet.

Jon smiles gratefully, perhaps having been afraid that I might’ve reacted differently.

“It’s a very honorable path you’ve chosen for yourself, Jon.” Dad clears his throat. “We’re very proud.”

That was the most heartfelt thing I’ve heard Dad say in a while. That’s about as gushy as he gets, at least with the boys, but we all know that that only gives his words more weight.

“Thank you, father.” Jon’s formality and the strain in his voice is the most emotion I’ve seen from him in a while, too.

_Men._

Arya is the only one at the table who still seems very not-okay with all of this. Jon catches the expression on her face and looks at her imploringly.

“Arya, you knew I was going to be shipped out eventually, didn’t you?”

She looks from Jon to Dad and back and I watch as she has the same solemn realization that we all have had— this is happening no matter what and it’s not about me. Her devastation folds in on itself until it is gone and replaced with softness.

Her voice is quiet. “Yeah. I know, I just… I’m going to miss you.”

“I’m going to miss you, too. And it’s not goodbye forever, you know,” he laughs.

Rickon looks at Mom, alarmed, thinking what no one else dares to. I sense her shoot him a silencing look.

“So we’re both leaving for Europe tomorrow,” Robb notes with a humorless laugh.

I happen to know that the same honor-bound ticking that lives in Jon lives in Robb, as well, to a different degree. I remember he wanted to join the Corps with Jon at first. Dad talked him out of it— well, more like Dad told Robb what was going to happen. Robb was going to study business so he could run the company one day, and that was simply how it was. That was what Robb would do.

Robb isn’t bitter about it or anything; I think he might even be glad on some level that that choice was taken away from him. He’s better suited for this life, anyway. He seems to enjoy his studies and he’s good at what he does— he’s dangerously good at what he does from what I understand. He understands the business and wears the Stark name well; he’s the perfect firstborn son.

Still, I can tell some small part of him sometimes resents it. Perhaps especially now, looking at what he could’ve had— looking at Jon living the small dream that he still harbors deep down. Jon is a soldier in the military being shipped overseas by someone else’s orders, but in a way, he is much freer than Robb may ever be.

While Jon enters a new world with new people with the possibility of danger and excitement, Robb will be getting another business degree so that he can do more business when he comes home again. I get it.

But I don’t feel sorry for Robb. I know if he was given the option, he wouldn’t change anything. He just can’t help wanting what he can’t have. He’s human.

“Will you write to me from Oxford?”

“Of course,” Robb says. “Of course I will.”

“I will, too,” Arya sighs, like she’s surrendering her last ounce of anger.

“Great! I’ll expect several letters a week, then,” Jon says with a funny little smirk— so foreign on his usually serious features— as he leans back in his chair. “The guys will think I’m famous or the leader of a cult or something.”

We all laugh, and just like that everything feels normal again.

 

———————————

I don’t have to try to survive the rest of the evening— I actually enjoy it. Time passes easily and I feel a warmth from being with my family I don’t remember having since I was very, very small. Is it because pieces are starting to break apart, because we all feel the impending separation? Are things better because we know they’re going to end?

I feel myself hesitant to leave, anxiety snaking around my ribcage as I hug Mom goodbye. I’ve already said my goodbyes to Bran and Rickon, who are gathered now on the couch with Jon, who will be staying the night. Arya, stubborn as ever, has decided to stay, too.

“You look happy,” Mom says thoughtfully, taking me a bit off guard.

“Happy?”

She narrows her eyes and examines my face with a smirk. “A boy?”

“What? Why do you say that?” I feel panicked heat rising in my face.

“I can just tell.”

“That’s impossible.”

“You’re right, it’s none of my business,” she sniffs, but doesn’t lift her loving scrutiny. “You look tired, though.”

“What— so I’m tired and happy at the same time? Is that even possible?”

“Yes. Yes, I think it is. Absolutely.” Then, as if connecting dots, “Men are tiring, aren’t they?”

I have to laugh. She’s not wrong. “Love you, Mom.”

“I love you, too, darling.”

Dad comes up behind her with an absentminded smile. A true one— rare and comforting to behold. Then his brow furrows as he stops. “What’s this about men?”

He looks at me.

“Nothing,” Mom answers for me.

I peer around him. “Wait, is Robb staying the night, too? Am I the only one leaving?”

I said goodbye to him just a moment ago, but I don’t see him now with the others.

“Ah— no, he’s not staying. He still has to go home to pack. They leave early tomorrow. You brother and I just— we need to discuss some business before he goes.”

He’s tense and I’m curious as to why, but I decide it’s none of my business. I work for Lannisport, and by his command, at that. Whatever this weirdness is isn’t my problem.

He leans forward and kisses my forehead, something he hasn’t done since I was a girl. I go completely still until he pulls back.

“You’re doing so well,” he says to me, quietly. “You are. You know your way, always have. Be safe.”

This raises a small amount of alarm.

“Thanks, Dad… is everything okay?”

“Yes, of course. It will be. You’re a smart girl, Sansa,” he says, but it sounds like he’s telling himself, reflecting, reassuring. It’s strange.

“Ned…” Mom starts.

“You must get it from your mother,” he smiles wistfully.

He laughs suddenly and breaks the tension.

“So much excitement in one night,” he says, putting an arm around Mom. “Visit us more often, will you?”

I nod. “I will.”

Side by side they stand in front of me, they look like a pair of deeply-rooted redwoods— ancient and steady, entwined together over time. Honest and infallible, tall and proud, safe and sturdy. I suddenly want to throw myself between them and feel their steadiness wrap around me the way I did when I was little, when I took it for granted.

Then a wild, joyous peel of laughter from Rickon carries over from the next room and Mom looks over her shoulder, smiling.

I step back instead. “Okay, then. I’ll see you soon.”

“Soon,” Dad nods with his signature tight smile— warm and thoughtful but sad and far away all at once.

 

————————————

I drive in complete silence— no music, no radio, nothing.

For the first time in recent history I feel utterly alone by myself. I welcome it. Fully feeling a feeling is supposedly better than trying to stop it or drown it, I’ve heard. Tears start and I let them go freely. I’m not sure why exactly I’m crying. This has all been just… a lot. I’m not hysterical or anything, just open-tapped.

By the time I’m in the city, I’ve cried for Jon, for Robb, for the fragmentation of my family, I’ve cried for Margaery, for myself, for the way it felt to walk away tonight, for every little thing in between. I’m all out by the time I’m in my apartment building’s elevator, and I do feel better. Massively better.

Tired, yes— but happy. Maybe there’s something to that.

I stop by Arya’s apartment to check on her cat. It’s not like Nymeria will perish if Arya isn’t there for a night, but I check anyway. I change her water and level up her food bowl and look for a toy for good measure.

Even the bitchy animal incarnate of Arya will play with me if there’s no one else around. Besides, I think Nymeria has actually come to like me. After chasing the feather for a while, she comes up and rubs against my leg, purring. I pet her, just happy to make someone else happy. Happy to be appreciated in this small way. So simple.

On the cold floor of Arya’s dark and silent apartment, petting the cat that once scratched me so badly I scarred, I realize the only reason I’m still here is to avoid Margaery.

I sigh and leave Nymeria with one last head scratch before heading across the hall.

It occurs to me when I open the door that Margaery might not even be home. It’s nine o’clock at night— she could still be out somewhere or be with one of her lovers, spending the night away like she is often apt to do. If she is here, she’s got to be asleep, judging from the dim and quiet inside the apartment.

Her purse isn’t in its spot— she’s not here, then.

I let out a deep, almost comic sigh of relief. Of course, this only postpones—

 

Then someone clears their throat.

 

It came from the living room and it’s definitely not Margaery.

I stumble backwards a couple feet, adrenaline rushing through me.

It gives me a dumb sort of courage. “Who’s there?”

As soon as I say it, I realize who it could be but I still need to know.

“Seven hells— who’s there?” I repeat.

“Lord of six of them.” A laugh. “Guess.”

I cross to the light switch and turn a couple on. “Not cool.”

“‘Not cool,’” Petyr mimics, tasting the phrase with exaggerated interest. I turn and wince at the valley girl slipping out. I don’t justify it, I keep my distance and slow my breathing. How did he even—? _Margaery._

“Well, it wasn’t,” I say in a calmer voice once my pulse lowers to a tolerable speed.

“I apologize,” he says. “Ms. Tyrell—”

“—Let you in,” I finish flatly. “Yeah, I gathered.”

“I did call you,” he says, voice both lilting and rough. The effect of it sinks into me like a bite.

“I put my phone on airplane mode,” I explain. “During dinner.” _Didn’t feel like turning it back on._

“I see.”

I sigh and make my way towards the side of the couch where he stands. That inexplicable _thing_ he carries in his posture, the very same thing in his eyes and smile, teases me as I get closer.

“Is everything okay?” I ask, looking around him for some clue.

His eyebrows raise. He gestures to his own chest with amusement. “Is everything okay with me?”

“Yeah.” I gesture to his chest the same way he did. “With you.”

He regards me for a long moment with his weathered green eyes. “Why do you ask?”

I laugh, sure that he’s messing with me. His face doesn’t change. Oh, he’s serious.

“Firstly, because you’re here in my apartment unannounced,” I say, and hold up a finger to stop his from explaining himself again.

I get closer to him. He smells faintly of mint.

“But mostly,” I whisper like it’s obvious, which it should be, “because I want to know.” Imagine that.

“Yes, everything’s okay,” he assures me with a soft smile.

“Good,” I say, but I have the feeling that he wouldn’t tell me if things weren’t. That he could be lying right now and I wouldn’t have a clue. I’m starting to realize maybe I’ll never be able to tell the difference. I feel a small sick churn in my stomach.

“Why are you here, then?”

He looks at me like he’s offended. “You, Sansa. Surely you must know that.”

“So it has nothing to do with Margaery revealing the source of her cocaine?”

His face falls. He looks down and nods to himself, chewing his lip. “Sit down, Sansa.”

I look at him, incredulous.

“Sit down.” His tone is no different from the last request but I find myself sitting anyways.

“Do you know where I’m from?”

“Long Beach, right?”

He nods, pleased. “And you know I was raised in the Tully household.”

“Yes.”

“But I wasn’t one. Do you understand?”

“I think so.”

“My father, my real father, had no status or wealth whatsoever. Just luck. Living with your mother’s family was charity. I was charity. I was not a Tully.”

“I understand,” I say quietly.

“Good. So that was my square one. Do you know what I mean? Square one?”

I nod.

“Now I advise the wealthiest movie studio in the world, am an executive at that studio, and own seventeen properties across the county of Los Angeles, two of which are operating nightclubs in Hollywood. And that’s the, you know, the above-the-line bit.”

I’m having a bit of whiplash from those numbers, and a rising curiosity as to where this is going.

“So how do you think I got here, to this square?”

I don’t need him to prompt me anymore, I can tell he wants a serious answer. He wants this to be a lesson, and I’m to play along.

“Persuasiveness?” I say, the first skill to come to mind.

“Yes and no,” he nods. “Keep going.”

“Money, information.”

“Sure,” Petyr nods. “What else?”

“Planning… allying?”

He sits down on the coffee table across from me, leaning in.

“The thing you need to understand most about the world, Sansa dear, is this: _you make your own rules._ ”

Petyr pulls back and starts cuffing up his shirtsleeves, letting his words settle over us.

“What do you think I mean by that?” he asks.

“I don’t know, what do you mean?” I manage to keep the bite out of the words, but I still sound a little frustrated.

He pauses his task to scan me thoughtfully, then continues.

“The way this world is set up,” he sighs, “is arbitrary. Some guys a long time ago, far far away decided that some things were good and some things were bad. And now we fight wars over it.”

He makes an annoyed, dismissive hand gesture.

“Sorry— are we talking about, like, good and evil?”

“That’s just it, though— there’s no such thing. They’re man-made words assigned to man-made ideas made up by other men who were no better than you or I. See?”

I think the confusion and worry must show on my face because takes one look at it and laughs.

“I’m not crazy, sweetling, I promise you. Not like that, at least. I do believe in some sort of morality. I just believe that every man creates his own. Every single thing on this earth is relative. Nothing is objective. Nothing.”

“You could justify literally anything with that thinking,” I protest.

“Yes,” Petyr says bluntly. “Yes, you could. So it’s up to each man, isn’t it?”

“How does this relate to your square?”

“While everyone else is shuffling from square to square, back and forth, I understand how to go up and down, around, over, under. Through.”

“Sounds like cheating.”

“No such thing. There is no game so there are no rules. It’s just you and the world and what you do inside it. It’s not inherently bad, it’s just the truth. That’s the most primal truth there is, Sansa, and you’d do well to understand it.”

“How does this—”

“I sell substances here and there. Margaery told you as much, didn’t she?”

I feel myself go still.

“Selling drugs is ‘bad,’ right? Except there is no such thing as objective bad. It’s relative. If it’s not me who sells it, it’s someone else. I sell to adults who make their own decisions.”

“Petyr—”

“And you’ll come to see the law means little to nothing to me. I have more than a few officers—”

“—Petyr—”

“—with me. And they have made their own rules, too. I’m only trying to explain to you so that you know. This is the way it is. This is just—”

“—Petyr, I don’t care that you sell drugs.”

He stops.

“I don’t,” I repeat.

He crosses his arms. “No?”

I feel his gaze burning through me. The combination of the heat of my skin and the cold of the room is sending goosebumps up my neck.

“I don’t care if you’re ‘bad,’” I say quietly, almost embarrassed of the words. “I don’t care. You could never be bad to me.”

His eyes flash with something I can’t name.

“So I guess I do understand. It’s all relative,” I laugh weakly, because I do understand now, in a way. I take a deep breath, then finish and say, “Just please don’t hide from me.”

“I’m not hiding from you, sweet,” he says gently. “I’m right here.” His eyes are full of sadness. Or is it affection? Or pity? They’re the color that moonlight turns beneath the ocean.

“I’m not saying I need to know everything,” I say. “Because I don’t. That’s not what I’m saying, it doesn’t have to be like that.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that what I do know, I don’t want to hear second-hand from my friends.”

There’s a heartbeat of him just watching me, withholding, and I swear I’d pay actual money just to know what he is thinking in this moment.

Then he nods in a ‘touché’ kind of way. “Alright.”

“What even happened with Margaery, anyway?” I ask, only just able to make the question come out even-sounding.

“After you left, she met a guy. He bought from me—well, from one of my girls— and gave her a sample, if I remember correctly.”

So concise, so easy, so matter-of-fact.

I nod like I wasn’t expecting anything else. “And when you came here?”

“I didn’t know you’d fought until I showed up and she told me.”

“Ah,” I say, feeling stupid but keeping even. I believe him, even with the leftover uneasiness.

He pouts at me with an amused sickly sweetness, about to launch into saying things I’d rather skip. No doubt some form of taunting _‘what did you think happened, sweetling?’_

“I misinterpreted her explanation,” I say before he can even start, in a tone I hope sounds final.

“She had a good time, but without you she I think went off the deep end a little bit.”

I scoff.

“And I don’t blame her.” He reaches and takes a piece of my hair in his fingers. “Any room you’re in gets a little darker when you leave it, sweetling.”

I swat his hand away, but I’m smiling and he sees it.

“Sansa,” Petyr says with a peculiar smile. “Do you want to hear about my other enterprises? Do you really want to know?”

I meet his eyes and feel the temperature of his energy flooding into mine. My attention trips down to his hands, which unhurriedly twist a thin gold ring around his middle finger.

“Most of it’s done in the dark, you know,” he muses, “so maybe you could do me a little good there. You could… you know, bring your light with you.”

I can feel my face warm, pleasantly this time, but I can’t seem to look up at him.

“So, Sansa— do you want to know?” he repeats.

I let my eyes skip quietly up along his bare forearms, to the rolled cuffs of his shirtsleeves at the elbow, to the crisp collar at his neck, to his face. He’s looking at me directly like that and it’s impossibly distracting. I know he’s just said a beautiful thing, and my very heart feels like it’s remolding in my chest from it, but even so I genuinely cannot think right now, and I’m not sure I care to.

“I do,” I say, but my voice trails. I sound as invested in the idea as I feel, at least in this moment.

He nods slowly and stands. “Very well,” he says, looking around the apartment.

He does a wide circle around the couch as I watch, stopping to point at a landscape oil painting at the other end of the room. “Yours? Did you choose that?”

“Yes.”

“All of them?”

“Most of them.”

He nods and completes his circle, stopping once again in front of me.

“You do look like a girl with an eye for art,” he remarks conversationally, which makes me laugh.

“Oh? What else do I look like?”

He pauses in thought. “Like a girl who loves baking, but not cooking.”

“No! No way, you had to have already known that somehow.”

“So I’m right,” he grins.

“Well, you… you look like a man with an appreciation for specialty soaps and things.” I offer.

Ridiculously, it was the first thing to pop into my head and now Petyr looks genuinely taken aback.

“Soaps?” he laughs, but his game face is settling in.

“Well, you know— like, nice shaving creams and shampoos and stuff.”

“I suppose so,” he concedes, then, without pause, “You look the kind of girl who goes out mostly because her friends do.”

“You look like a man who only really drinks when other men are around.”

His eyebrows lift. “Specific— impressive. Any more?”

“You look like the kind of man who knows how to pretend.”

“Easy.”

“Okay… you look like… like a man who ultimately wants to prove something.”

He lets that one sink in good-naturedly. I realize only after I’ve said it that it could be taken as a sort of insult, though I really didn’t mean it that way. I can tell he doesn’t really buy into it, but that he’s interested in the fact that I said it. I have to try again.

I realize what I’m maybe really getting at as I say it: “You look like you’re not as goodnatured as you seem.”

He’s really listening now, peering at me with renewed interest.

Petyr Baelish is the friendly-faced advisor. He’s the first-to-shake-your-hand businessman, the smiling guest at dinner, the active listener, the eager participant. He is the quietly pleasant man in the board room with an ever-present interested smile. When he speaks, he’s tactful, considerate, but never a pushover in any sense— he commands attention when he chooses but is always aware of each and every person present in any room.

He walks the line between friend and superior, between ally and boss, between the iron fist and the helping hand. Even when has to be aggressive with others at work, it’s always punctuated with a friendly laugh or balanced with a dose of self-deprecation.

Petyr Baelish constructed Petyr Baelish— ‘Littlefinger,’ as many in the business call him. It’s the only thing that makes sense.

The Petyr listening to me right now is not that same person; there are pieces of him in who I’m looking at now, but it’s like scrap work.

This one has sharper edges— raw, more like. He’s blunter, colder, straighter. All his tact and soft circling language is cut clean through. The pleasantness that he normally wears like a second skin drops in a heartbeat as soon as he chooses. This Petyr’s eyes are ruthlessly direct, his demeanor is unapologetically demanding. His world resembles more of an omnidirectional chess board rather than a playground. He is more than capable of contempt, and he does know hatred. He is not happy to stay where he is, he is not satisfied with second best. His appetite is bottomless and his ambition is steel.

Still, though, he is kind in any form— at least to me. He shares with me real slivers of the truth when we’re alone. This is when his edges come out, but also when his softest places show.

I’m still not sure which pieces are fabricated and which ones are real. Maybe they’re just… adjusted. Toned down, toned up, hidden, revealed, who knows. I don’t know what to think.

But what I do know is that he is not the nice man that comes to work every day, that he’s not the person I knew growing up, and that he's certainly not the man my mother thinks she knows. I swallow.

“I don’t think you’re ‘nice,’” I say. “I don’t think you’re very nice at all.”

The silence that follows feels different.

He nods to himself, taking a few steps away from me and then back again. He sits back down across from me and narrows his eyes at me in faux concentration.

“You look like the type of girl who loves stuffed animals.”

If he’s trying to throw me off, it won’t work.

“I did,” I concede, then shrug. “I do.”

“Tell me.” He pauses dramatically with a grin that sets me on edge. “Because I have a feeling, and my feelings are generally right. Is your room full of them?”

I feel my cheeks go hot.

I don’t know how he does it, but his pointed interest in the girly-ness of my room— like it’s some shameful thing— is filling me with something heavy and unfamiliar. I feel like I’m going to burn to ashes and blow away under his gaze, but I don’t. I keep my posture, my steadiness.

“Ah, so it is. And the walls— are they pink?”

I cling to my neutral expression.

“Answer me, Sansa.” I swear the color of his eyes have dropped. They have a dark sort of playfulness in them, now.

No fair, did he already know this? Did he look? Or am I just predictable? I bite my lip in protestation for half a second before doing as he says. “Yes.”

Petyr smiles a big-bad-wolf kind of smile that sends a shiver through me. He notices, and leans forward to rest a hand on my knee. The heat from his palm seeps quickly through my cold skin like a relief.

“You’re freezing,” Petyr notes.

“I’m okay,” I insist. I rotate his hand slightly so that it reaches across the inside on my knee where I’m warmer.

Petyr traces his fingertips along the skin, laughs softly like he’s about to say something, then stops. “You know, I’m not so sure that I believe you about the pink walls, sweetling.”

I need to touch him, I need him to touch me so badly. His hand is so warm and lovely where it is, but it’s clear he wants something else, something more. And I want what he wants.

“Why not?” I ask.

“You could just be telling me what I want to hear,” he says with a poorly suppressed cocky grin, “which I would understand, but…”

“No,” I say, heart skipping, “I’m not. I can show you. I’ll show you.”

I take his hand from between my knees and entwine it with mine, pulling both of us to our feet. For a second a small part of my brain is sent back to reality and is horrified at the idea of Petyr seeing my room, but I shut it down.

We reach the back of the hallway where I take us left, directly into my bedroom. Once inside, I’m happy to see and confirm that I did, in fact, clean up relatively recently— very little clothes are strewn about, the clutter on top of my dressers are like at 20% of what they were last week, and I had time to make my bed this morning. So, pretty good, all things considered.

My room really isn’t some little girl’s room— two of the walls are a soft pink for accent, yes, and I do have a decent-sized pile of stuffed animals I refuse to give away in a pile by the bed, but other than that it’s truly pretty average. In terms of colors, most everything is either navy blue, white, or a natural wood brown. I have almost an entire wall lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stuffed with books and decorated with fairy lights and candles, in addition to a corner desk laden with an old printer too many office supplies, and a bed with very nondescript — non-girly— black bedding.

At the same time, though, if I were seeing it for the first time I would still definitely guess it belonged to a teenage girl… and there’s still the small mountain of stuffed animals to contend with. My body can’t seem to decide whether to be rational about this or embarrassed by it.

I go to let go of Petyr’s hand to kick a stray pair of tennis shoes out of our way, but he grips me tighter and pulls me straight back into his chest.

“You were telling the truth,” Petyr says, two inches away. His eyes dart around the room, smiling. “Teddy bears and all.”

“Teddy bears and all,” I echo.

He shakes his head, but in an affectionate sort of way, wrapping his arms around my waist tight so we’re pressed close.

“Smells like you,” he murmurs.

“Makes sense.” Every ounce of my attention is swarming around every square inch of us that touches.

Petyr, himself, smells faintly of sweet cigars and raw mint. I love it. I lean into him and try to memorize the scent in perfect detail, but it’s impossible even with him right here in front of me. The nature of it is too fleeting.

“You spend a lot of time here?” he asks against my head.

“Yeah, we’ve lived here for two years.”

He makes a low sound of acknowledgment. I feel it in my chest.

“And when you touch yourself, where do you do it?”

I pull back to look at him.

“Show me.” He’s perfectly calm, perfectly serious. Almost casual.

Predictably, my face goes hot all at once. My first and only thought is an objection. “I— I don’t have, like, one spot.”

“How many, then?” His voice is so thoughtful.

I shrug and gesture around, trying not to squirm.

“You favorite then,” he concedes, frustratingly nonchalant while I can feel my skin everywhere burning bright pink from the inside.

I cover my face with my hand for a moment for a short, flimsy reprieve from it all.

“Don’t be shy, sweetling.”

He’s enjoying this. He’s playing with his food, the sadistic little—

I feel his hand gently grab mine and lower it from my face.

He looks at me with a mix of curiosity and amusement and, frozen, I simply watch him watch me in the stillness. My attention starts to spiral— I want to reach up and touch the smooth crinkles at his eyes, want to feel the scruff on his jaw. Then something drops behind his eyes and he takes my head in his hands, bringing his lips to mine. The kiss has purpose from first touch. It’s long, it’s open, it’s slow, and it’s his. Like I’m just there for the ride. His unique taste coupled with the heat and unrelenting control in every second is dizzying. His mouth is somehow simultaneously both rough with me and kind, if not exactly gentle. His hands on either side of my head take away the option to move, allowing me to let go of the thought of it and simply open myself. And I do. My knees literally start to feel weak and I have to grab hold of him after a while to keep myself straight. Only a few moments later, though, he pulls away and I’m forced to collect myself. All I want is his mouth back on me, his skin on mine, his touch. I blink away the daze, trying to hide my heavy breathing.

His voice is low and rough like sandpaper as he pushes me away. “Go on, show me.”

I do as I’m told and stumble up onto the bed. I sit back on my feet, facing him, and swallow. “I’m… it’s not very creative.”

“That’s alright,” he answers. “How?”

I find it in me to look at him directly. “Depends— my fingers, sometimes a vibrator, sometimes my bear.”

I stay still and try gauge his reaction. He clears his throat, scratches under his wristwatch.

“Really?” he asks carefully, lightly, like we’re talking about a sports team’s recent upset.

“Used to have a favorite pillow, too, but it got old and tattered. Hard to find a new one like it.”

“A pillow, hm?”

“Yeah. I really miss it.” I look around at the other pillows on my bed, realizing this one small point of advantage I have over him. I play it up. “Nothing else… feels the same.”

Petyr worries the heel of his palm along both sides of his jaw into the roughness of his five o’clock shadow, then ducks his head and says something under his breath I can’t hear. He crosses the room in a few strides, takes the chair from my small corner desk, pulls it up to the edge of the bed, and sits.

“Sweetling… would you like to do something for me?”

“Yes.”

He smiles. “Are you sure? Because, remember—”

I crawl across the bed to get as close to him as I can without falling off.

“Tell me what to do,” My brain has fogged up to my ears and eyes and now all I can see is him, all I want is to please him. “Please tell me what to do, Daddy.”

I see the words do their magic right there, right in his eyes. Everything about him deepens in a half-second, his focus narrows, his face sets into new lines. I immediately feel the pulse of thick, dark thrill in my gut that I get only from the look— that look— that I’m getting from him now.

“Go on and take off whatever you’d take off if you were alone. Do it slowly.”

I feel fresh adrenaline lifting me higher out of my own body as I crawl back on my hands and knees to my original spot on the bed. Slowly, as instructed, I proceed to take my bra off from under my shirt while keeping the shirt in place. If I were truly alone right now, I’d probably be in my pajamas— generally just XXL men’s t-shirts and boy-shorts. The shirt I’m wearing now fits me normally unlike my normal pajamas, but other than that it fits the bill of authenticity. I unzip my skirt down my back and, as gracefully as possible, pull it over my head. I leave my underwear in place for now and turn back to face my audience.

“How do you like it most, sweetling?” he asks evenly, but it sounds like somewhere down there a hinge is coming loose. Is he torturing himself on purpose? I’d be glad to be in his lap right now, although I admit this is definitely more interesting and entertaining so far. I didn’t know I could do this. I feel heightened.

“Other than the pillow?” I say, just to push him.

He gives a weak laugh. “Other than the pillow.”

I think I know what he wants, so I give him the option to say it. “You choose.”

Silence. When he makes no move, I interrupt the stillness and choose for him, pulling Mr. Princely from the pile of assorted stuffed animals beside my bed. I hold him up as though for inspection.

“Do you approve?”

He smiles warmly, but there’s an edge of something like blood thirst in it. “Yes.”

I knew he would. I smile and look down at the little guy. Princely is a fairly plain, unassuming teddy bear that looks like he’s seen better days, but still keeps a certain charm. He’s happy-looking— a simple brown bear with a smiling black snout and paws. I didn’t buy him for this purpose or anything, he just turned out perfect for it. I don’t even remember where or when I got him, but here we are now, all these years later, performing for Mr. Petyr Baelish.

A stray nauseating roll of anxiety stops me for a moment. I think Petyr senses it.

“Show Daddy what you do next, sweetling.” His voice is scary gentle.

Okay. Okay, okay. Don’t think too hard about it.

I get on my stomach and position Princely. I press my lips together and wonder briefly what in the seven hells I’m doing. The thought of Petyr behind me, watching me, wanting me, though, washes me with enough desire to drown out the doubt. However humiliating this feels, I know it’s twice as hot, and that even the humiliating part of it is double-edged with something stronger. That’s what helps me be able to start.

I close my eyes and ease in hesitantly. Thinking about Petyr almost backfires at first because I’m so on edge about being aware of another person in the room in general, but that changes. Knowing it’s him is scary and thrilling and it translates into an unfamiliar and potent kind of eroticism. I start to search for the sweetest spots by rolling my hips and then grinding with more purpose whenever I feel close to something. I try to breathe as evenly as possible, going slow at first. I keep one hand around Princely to help with control and movement, propping myself up with the other. Behind me I hear Petyr shift in his chair just as I find the edge of a build, a little vocalized gasp sliding out of me. My first instinct is to stifle it, to feel embarrassed. But then I realize my noises are likely the best thing happening right now, that keeping them in is useless. I’ve been gaining momentum, so when I start breathing heavier, I let myself without self-censorship; I let myself be flustered and dramatic if I feel it. I lose what I’d been gaining, though, and go to try for another kind of pressure, moving around and down an inch. Grinding at the flatter angle works almost immediately—I move faster, my entire body tightening to compensate for the motion. I feel myself getting closer, the angle steeper, the feeling stronger. My hands turn to fists and my grinding into Mr. Princely becomes desperate, obscene. I hear little incoherencies coming from somewhere else, not from me, even though I know they must be.

Then everything leaves me and I forget absolutely everything— there’s only the unstoppable rise surging through me, balancing on that tortuous edge, and then collapsing and rushing away all at once.

And then I’m me again, panting in my own bed with sweat beading on my face and a teddy bear wedged between my thighs.

I sit up, suddenly very embarrassed when I re-remember that Petyr literally just saw all of that. Head down, I start to slide my legs off the bed but I’m stopped before they can touch the ground. I look up at him through my lashes as though they’ll provide me some sort of protection.

He’s standing above me, and I immediately sense something in him vibrating at a frequency far more intense than I was expecting. He is looking at me like he might snap— and do what, I don’t know yet. He almost looks like he might kill me. Or kiss me. Or just sit back down and sigh it away with a smirk. I really can’t fucking tell. All I know is I don’t want him to look away. I want to feel whatever he has a lid on, whatever it is I’m looking at right now.

So I pull my t-shirt off over my head, not for a moment looking away from him. The intensity is hypnotic, suspenseful, terrifying, but the most magnetic thing I’ve felt in my life. Slowly, silently, still without looking away, I reach out and unbutton his shirt with a soft touch then reach up to take the whole thing off his shoulders.

I go for the belt next, which I have to look down for. I’m careful to touch only the belt, smoothly pulling it out of its loops. I set it aside. I look to him again before moving further, when, to my surprise, he reaches and touches my face with a hand. It pauses there, though, and comes down instead to pick up the belt. He feels the weight of for a few quiet few seconds.

He breaks the silence. “Show me your hands.”

I bring both my hands out in front of him, but he changes his mind. “Behind you.”

I obey and wait soundlessly as he presumably ties them, my mind racing. When he leans back, finished, I can feel the belt binding my wrists together behind my back. The hold isn’t super tight, though, so I have a bit of wiggle room.

As if reading my mind, Petyr adds, “Hold on to it if you have to. Good girls don’t leave their bonds, not until I say so.”

I nod, blushing. This version of Petyr is much like the others I’ve met, but at the same time just as completely different. He’s scarier, clearer, more forceful. I like it. It feels rawer. Maybe it’s closer to the real him, if even such a thing exists.

I’m standing on my knees on the mattress looking up at Petyr, his angle over me far steeper than I’m used to. He brings his hand to my face once again in the same soft fashion as before, except this time it keeps going and slides back to settle around the back of my head. His other hands trails lightly down the center of my sternum, down to my belly button and back up with cold fingertips. I shiver and feel the goosebumps start to rise before they even show up on my skin. He takes his touch away.

Then, simultaneously, his upper hand slides up into my hair and becomes a fist of it while the other snakes down the front my underwear. I hold my breath, his fingers sliding easy against me with the help of the extra slickness that my little show provided.

His fingers enter me crudely and without warning, and I gasp. I move to look down at what he’s doing, but the fist in my hair tugs me back so that I’m only able to look at him and him alone. I can look at him or close my eyes— those are my only options. I whimper in his grip, but it’s one that blooms from unexpected pleasure as I fix my eyes on him, letting the feeling of my own helplessness arouse me overwhelmingly. He sinks into our eye contact and begins to move his fingers rhythmically. I whimper again, inches from his face, watching the satisfaction on Petyr’s face from watching mine like a deranged mirror.

He starts getting deeper and rougher with me, all while adding that sinful curl of his fingers, and I feel like I might start crying. The sensation is a thousand times better than my own fingers have ever given me— I feel so full of him and desperately, achingly unable to stop it that it nears unbearable. My wrists strain against the belt as the rest of my body starts to react, but I keep them there. A different pressure finds me higher and I nearly fold in on myself in response; I try to say something but can’t get the words out. Instead I’m moaning and whimpering pathetically right into his face, into that perverse satisfaction, into his open mouth. I’m at his complete mercy, unable to use my arms or move my head, which effectively limits what I can do with the rest of me entirely. He increases his speed at the same time he pulls my face closer, roughly. I know it pleases him, and it’s already on the tip of my tongue, so I whimper again against his mouth— this time allowing the sharp corners of my real pain and real fear cut through the pleasure.

A low and predatory noise slips his throat and I realize he’s going to make me come like this— he’s actually going to do it.

I can’t help it, my hips start frantically trying to meet his fingers for the deepest penetration they can possibly get. I hear myself begging but I can’t even distinguish my own words anymore.

I’ve been standing on my knees, and now I can feel my legs starting to tremble uncontrollably beneath me. I’m thinking of how I can’t take another second when it finally comes for me.

Petyr starts soothing me with low words just as it starts, holding me upright as I feel my body start to break into little shudders underneath me. I’m rushed all at once into that inhuman feeling of being trapped under my own violent, uncontrollable pleasure. Finally after a few moments that seem to last forever, something that feels like a dam breaks and I go limp in a flood of relief and collapse into a shaky mess.

“Good girl,” Petyr says in such a low voice that I barely hear it. I find myself crawling back up to him despite it all. He smoothes my hair once.

I don’t even know what to say. I don’t think I’ve ever… he just did that with his fingers alone in, what, two minutes?

He lets me breathe for a moment. He holds my sides with fingers spread wide across my ribcage, like he’s containing my very breath between his palms. The steady warmth of it is comforting.

I’m finally ready to say something coherent when I look back up, but am stopped by Petyr’s lips descending on me from above.

I’m a little surprised at first but reciprocate in earnest, sinking fast under the sure feeling of his mouth on mine. He pulls back half an inch, arms around me to keep me close.

“Whenever you want to touch yourself,” he rasps, his fingers digging into me almost painfully, “from here on out, you ask my permission first. You ask me first.”

He meets my mouth again for a couple of seconds with bruising force as though it were punctuation.

“Do you understand?”

“Yes, Daddy,” I breathe against him without missing a beat, already badly craving his touch again.

He makes a pained noise, running a warm hand down my back, kissing me harder, deeper, wetter until—

“Good,” he groans, breaking away.

He pauses and tenderly smoothes a piece of my hair around my ear.

Then, darkly, flatly, simply— “Now Daddy's going to fuck you.”

It sounds kind of funny, but here, now, from his mouth with that look-- it isn't. The way he says it makes my blood run cold.

My mind flashes back for split second, remembering that first night— all the things he said to me, how he choked me, how he wanted to finish in my mouth, how he wanted me to cry for him.

And I know I shouldn’t want those things, I know. Maybe they should disturb me.

But they don’t. They make me wet. Disgustingly, embarrassingly wet.

“Okay,” I whisper in a voice that cracks.

He strokes my cheek, his eyes roaming over every inch of my skin carnivorously.

“Poor Sansa, all alone with her bear,” he muses, a funny sadistic bite in it. “What do you think of when you close your eyes, little one?”

“Nothing… specific,” I whisper shakily.

“I’ll only allow you to touch yourself when I know what exactly you’re thinking about. You have to tell Daddy first, wherever you are.”

 _Seven hells, Petyr Baelish._ “I understand.”

“Was it hard? To have Daddy watch?”

His pupils are blown wide open and his voice is dangerously even. While he seems entirely calm and in control, at the same time I feel like he's completely lost it. Like he's not there anymore, in a way.

“At first,” I answer quietly, “but then… I liked it. You helped me.”

“How did I help you, sweetling?”

I swallow back the reflex to say something offhand or untrue to diffuse the tension I’m feeling. How is it so hard to give a straight answer?

“Just knowing you were near, and the… effect it was— I was having. On you."

He’s amused by my answer, but his small smile is all wrong and everything about it is tinged red.

“The effect,” he repeats softly, quickly unwrapping the belt from one of my wrists behind me and taking one of them in his.

He skims my palm with his thumb, then brings it down to settle around the shape of his cock. He presses his hand over mine, keeping me there, and leans further down.

“You couldn’t possibly know,” he murmurs mostly to himself.

Then his tongue pushes into my mouth and my soul almost leaves me. His mouth is insistent and demanding as he presses his hand over mine down the length of his erection, then sliding it back up with equal force, his breath tripping slightly.

“I want to know,” I murmur back between breaths.

Petyr ignores me and forms my hand more closely against him, grinding it down on him.

I whine wanting more, almost completely delirious.

He pulls away roughly and all at once.

“Get down,” he orders, and my gut twists with both horror and excitement.

My feet barely touch the floor of my room before he’s pushing me to my knees and cupping my jaw upwards to face him. A sick thrill pushes its way through me to the surface and I have to fight a smile. For a second I think he’s going to smack me for it, but instead he lets go.

“Give me your mouth.”

I note with interest he’s not calling me sweetling, now. I dutifully open my mouth, a rapturous anticipatory heat coursing through me.

Petyr pushes my hair back from my face, considers me with an unreadable expression, then slowly slips his third and fourth fingers into my mouth. They slip straight back as far his hand allows, then push down on my tongue, dangerously close to where my gag reflex begins. My throat makes an ugly little noise but I keep still. Whatever test this is, I want to pass it.

He stops and smiles and I feel a weird wave of relief. Until he says, “Suck.”

I close my lips around him and suck, sliding my tongue across his fingers as I pull back. I realize, looking up at him, that the taste on his fingers is mine.

“Good,” he murmurs to no one in particular, pushing his fingers back inside without expression.

He taps the side of my face with his other hand and, understanding, I open wide for him. He starts to feel me with ungraceful fingers exploring the inside of my mouth possessively, pushing against the inside of my cheek and stroking my tongue. He brings in more fingers, testing how much I can take. I know I have to be still and let him do whatever he wants. I have to take it. His fingers are demanding, dominating; the act itself is borderline degrading. At one point he pushes deeper than even before and I actually gag on his fingers, but he only shushes me softly with a kind touch to my cheek and keeps going. I submit to it completely, pathetically gathering slickness and strangely wanting more than anything to hear him tell me how good I'm taking his fingers.

A low hum ripples low in his throat as he rubs two fingertips in a circle on my tongue, staring glassy-eyed at me. I can feel my own saliva pooling at the edges of my mouth, unable to swallow it back since his presence there doesn’t allow me. He smiles and pulls his fingers out, still holding my jaw open while he traces his thumb lightly around my lips.

My is mouth dripping, now. The liquid runs down my chin and drips onto the floor as I force myself to keep looking at him despite feeling the wavering degree of shame that comes from being kept in the position. Somehow, though, the element of humiliation trembling through me only results in a harder resolve to please him further, to try harder. Petyr wipes his thumb across my lips, smearing them with the warm wetness with a pleased, appraising look.

“Such a good girl,” he says, smiling just a little. “So pretty… such a pretty face.”

My heart does a little flip. I’m sitting here, unquestioningly pathetic on my knees, with drool all over my face and someone else’s fingers in my mouth. Yet I believe his words more than anything— I feel high on them.

Petyr undoes his pants with his wet fingers and then drops them, taking his cock in hand. He strokes himself twice and I can feel the heat of him watching me.

“Look at me,” he says, so, so quietly. “Keep your hands behind your back." Even though I'm not actually tied anymore, I obey and move my gaze back to his eyes, those eyes that I’ve seen in so many states— soft, warm, angry, hard, thoughtful, calculating, adoring, hungry, blackened with want, blinded by pleasure. The mature lines around them make every look and every feeling, deeper, fuller, brighter, louder, softer— unlike anyone else I’ve ever looked at, unlike anyone who’s ever looked at me or touched me. There's no real comparison.

“There,” he murmurs, and guides himself inch by inch into my open, waiting mouth.

I slowly wrap my lips around him and suck just around the head of his cock softly, testing the waters.

He tilts his head back and curses, breaking the eye contact he loves so much. A strange, thick melting sensation pools in my stomach— power. I take him in a bit further and do the same thing again, experimentally running my tongue flat along the underside of his cock as I go.

I feel a tight fist wrap into my hair, hear the angry hiss of an exhale through teeth. I’d smile to myself if I could.

“Good girl,” he says, using his grip on my head to push it back two inches, where it meets the solid side of the mattress. I quickly scoot my knees back to catch up so I’m not leaning backward.

Again he slowly pushes himself into my mouth, but this time my head can’t move with him, not even an inch. I stay pressed in place into the side of the thick mattress as though against a wall as he sinks himself even deeper, hitting the back of my throat. I close my eyes, focusing hard on not rejecting him while still breathing.

“No,” he says roughly. “Look at me.”

The way he takes what he wants with that unquestionable authority, that demanding roughness, that unapologetic expectation of obedience— it blinds me from all reasonable or coherent thought. I do as he says and watch his reaction, hear the throaty groan as our eyes meet. His jaw goes adorably slack as he watches me take as much of him as I possibly can.

"You take Daddy's cock so well, baby," he rushes in a long stilted exhale. He moves back an inch, then forward again. "Daddy loves feeling your sweet little mouth. You're doing so good. Take some more for Daddy, baby. You can take some more."

He takes himself back out a ways. I take a breath while letting my saliva drip down his cock in the most obscene, dramatic way possible, then reach up with my mouth and tongue to take it all back. I look to him evenly, worked up as hell and letting him see that I want it.

This time I feel more ready as I take him in, as though some strange muscle memory is kicking in. He meets a rhythm, holding my head as I keep my lips soft and tight around him. He pushes himself further down my throat and I figure out how to still my reflex and breathe through my nose, taking it much easier and deeper for him. He swears again and again and I feel a little surge of pride.

"Good girl," he groans, lost in it, "so good for Daddy. Such a perfect little mouth for Daddy to fuck. Daddy loves to..."

Then he breaks away all at once. He blinks a couple time and looks at me with wide eyes, like he's realizing he might've gone too far with everything, that he might've freaked me out. I could say 'no, it's okay' or try to explain that I like it and don't want him to stop, but the most convincing way to show him would be to show him. But I can't figure out how to show him quick enough and then I've waited too long.

"What's wrong?" I ask timidly. I keep my hands behind my back still, like he asked. "I thought I was being good."

"You were," his voice cracks, "you are."

He reaches soundlessly for my hands, pulling me to my feet and steadying me by my waist me once I’m there. I'm afraid to touch him but I need him. He reaches out to free my remaining wrist from his belt. Throwing all caution to the wind, quietly, "It's yours, Daddy, my mouth is yours. All of me is yours. I thought you knew that."

Then, as he pulls back, strangely and wonderfully, the most peculiar smile comes over him as he looks at me.

It’s that kind of smile that requires every corner of his face— it’s blinding and beautiful, but only for a split second. Once he leans forward to kiss me, the image is gone.

The details of it stay branded on the backs of my eyelids at first, though, and in that flash of immediate memory I see again his eyes and the surprising honesty in them. The change in tone is so unexpected but wonderful that I’m suddenly smiling, too.

My hands are free, now, so I tentatively bring them around his neck, pulling him closer. The shift in weight sends my momentum tripping backwards, toppling both of us onto the mattress. I erupt into actual giggles.

“Stop laughing,” he grins. “I’m trying to—”

“Sorry!” I say, but simply can’t.

I’ve ended up flat on my back with my legs dangling halfway off the mattress. With one arm propping himself over me, Petyr shimmies my utterly ruined panties completely off of me with the other. I wriggle myself around a bit to try to help him, but the silly feeling of it only makes me laugh harder.

“Sansa,” he warns, but I still hear the wide smile in his voice.

He finally silences me with his mouth, kissing me with a deep hunger that sends me spiraling back down into neediness with barely any effort. A hand skims down my side, down my leg, until it grabs the back of my thigh.

That’s he breaks our kiss to stand up straighter. He glances to me and I give a little nod, not giggly anymore but breathless and eager.

I feel him line himself up, then push inside me in one slow, long, forcible stroke.

I muffle a small scream, turning my head to the side so the look on my face is at least somewhat obscured. It's initially fucking painful but gets better gradually. His next stroke feels more pleasurably filling rather than painfully splitting, and my breath finds a more comfortable pace.

"Mine, huh?" he asks. He lowers himself back down to my level so that I’m able to bring my knees up around his hips, sinking him deeper and eliciting a little choked moan out of me. I feel Petyr’s fingers gently guide my face back to his, but he doesn’t kiss me. Instead he watches my face like he did before, except this time it feels different. Maybe momentarily softer.

And that’s nice and all, but I just want his soft and scratchy mouth on me again. I’m in no position to ask for anything, though, because what Petyr is doing is working, and speech is becoming difficult. My hand flies out to grab something— his leaning shoulder— and my fingers dig in.

Petyr grunts and drops his head into my shoulder, thrusting harder.

"Is that what you said, sweetling?" he urges low into my ear.

He completely lowers his right arm down on my right side so that I’m trapped three inches beneath him on all sides. I feel his hard breath hitting hard and hot against my neck as his thrusts pick up speed, and the thick heat in my gut gets even denser.

"Yours, Daddy," I affirm desperately, "your little girl, only yours."

Petyr makes a noise I've never heard him make. " _Fuck,_ Sansa."

I tighten around him involuntarily in response to hearing him say my name like that and he curses loudly again. I hope he understands now. 

Petyr cares about me. He's protective of me. He helps me. He teaches me. He's patient with me. He wants me. He makes me feel safe and wanted. He's the most handsome, capable man I've ever known. He makes me feel special, sometimes like I'm a little girl again. And he knows how to fuck me until I literally cry from pleasure, then hold me to him until I breathe right again. 

So what I hope Petyr understands now is that I like being his little girl. That I don't want him to hold back. That hearing him call himself 'Daddy' instantly makes me wet now. That I'm not afraid.

The mattress underneath me starts to slide a bit off the bed frame as Petyr fucks me even harder, pulling a low cry from my lips.

His face comes back above mine and I recognize in it the usual lust, a glint of his signature twisted carnal satisfaction, but now also… I’m not sure. Something else. Something clearer.

His mouth descends on mine and I can feel every breath in his lungs push against my own chest, his lips coaxing mine into steady compliance.

It's so intense and I'm so close that I start babbling pathetically, my mind spinning. "Please please please, Daddy--"

"Please what, sweetling?" he asks as sweetly as he can while thrusting as aggressively as he is.

"I need you to come inside me," I whine, surprising myself. I just need to feel him and I need him to feel me, too. "Please, Daddy."

This response might nearly kill him, judging from the look on his face and the twitch I feel inside me. When he opens his eyes, his face is that of a man whose control is still definitely slipping away.

I'm overwhelmed all at once and thrown over the edge of my climax, the most intense yet, squirming uncontrollably under Petyr in shuddering gasps.

"Good girl," he whispers hoarsely but gently, "come for Daddy. Come on, baby... that's right." I hold tightly to him as it rolls through me violently and finally starts to calm, savoring the sensation of getting to hold him so fully. I know I'm probably babble-whining the whole time, most likely his name and 'oh fuck' over and over, maybe begging him some more.

I'm only just recovering when Petyr's rhythm escalates until it can’t match itself and it starts to break.

"Fuck," he hisses.

I decide to push it a little... partially to make it better for him, partially to experiment, and... maybe partially to prove something.

"Please, Daddy," I beg again. "I want to feel you come."

"Fuck, sweetling, you're so tiny," he groans through his teeth, "my baby girl keeps such a tight little cunt for Daddy, doesn't she?"

 _Oh shit, it worked._ He's been holding out on me.

"Only for you, Daddy."

"So pink and perfect... only for Daddy to fuck. Only Daddy gets to fuck it. Right, sweetling? Even you, unless I say so."

Wow, he's _really_ been holding out on me. Holy shit. I'm getting hot again and losing my only advantage here, which was literally only the fact that I'm not on the brink of orgasm and he is.

"Only until you say so."

"Good girl, Sansa," he says, thrusting hard and fast, and I feel myself flush at hearing my name for some reason. "So good for Daddy. You take my cock so well, baby, wherever I give it to you, you take it so good and deep. Mouth open like a good girl."

I open my mouth and he puts his first four fingers inside, grabbing my jaw that way and keeping my head pressed to the mattress. I whine because I've already become incredibly turned on again and his fingers taste good in a strange way.

"Fuck," he grunts and I can tell he's close. "Do you want Daddy's cum, Sansa?" 

I nod with pleading eyes, speechless and gagged by his fingers. I've never seen him so close to losing every last shred of his composure and I can't look away.

"Fuck yes," he rasps in a choked groan, "Daddy's gonna come now, okay? Fuck, he's g—gonna come in his favorite l—little girl."

I whimper around his fingers and shudder, the shock and sickness of everything he's saying completely bypassing my brain and instead turning straight into pleasure.

His fingers leave my mouth but I keep an inch away from his when Petyr grunts and meets his climax, so I get to taste the mumbled version of my name that falls from his lips. I catch it, watching with hungry eyes the way Petyr Baelish looks when he completely loses himself… the way he looks when he loses himself because of me. I drink it in— the details of his handsome face twisted in pleasure and the beautifully rare lost look in his murky green eyes as he comes inside me. This piece of him is mine.

Petyr curses under his breath in a half-smile and stays very still against me for a long moment. Then he pulls out, running widely-splayed hands inch by inch down my torso with a sense of finality as he stands. He hesitates to lift his fingers at first-- to completely pull away from me-- but once he does, he immediately starts putting his clothes back on.

I lay still, exhausted, watching him only with bleary eyes.

It's becoming clear he's not going to say anything about what just happened, which I accept because I figure it means there's no problem in his eyes. Right? I mean, that was really hot so there's really no other issue for me to overthink. I think.

“Told you,” I say.

He turns. “Told me what, sweetling?”

“That you’re not very nice.”

He smiles crookedly and climbs up onto my bed in his clothes. “It wasn’t nice?”

“No, _you’re_ not. ‘Nice men’ don’t do what you just did.” I’m teasing, but I play it straight.

He pulls me upright alarmingly fast for my not expecting it and brings his right hand against my sex with a casually possessive touch. Like I'm... his. I blush, immediately knowing the gist of what he’s about to say as he brings his hand back with glistening fingers.

“No, sweetling— nice men _can’t_ do what I just did,” he smiles, bringing himself very close to my face again.

“So you agree, then? You’re not nice?” My cheeks are still raging with heat, but I’m grinning back and holding my ground.

“Depends,” Petyr says, eyebrows oh-so serious. “That term is subjective.”

I throw my hands up and flop back down onto my back. I hear soft laughter.

“Should’ve known.”

Petyr, in response, silently pulls me back into his lap and holds me there, arms wrapped around me like a gentle vice grip. He keeps me locked there and after a long moment or two I slip easily into the warm pressure of his arms. It’s the most comforting thing I’ve felt in a very long time. 

“You are meant for great things, Sansa Stark,” he says into my hair.

I could debate him on his reasoning for that statement or I could continue melting slowly but surely into his chest in peace. I choose peace. I feel a firm kiss pressed to the top of my head. The peace doesn’t last long enough.

“Sweetling,” Petyr whispers. “I have to go.”

I sit up on my own, trying not to let my disappointment show.

“I’ll be seeing you very soon,” he assures me with a gentle touch. “Go over that list of names.”

I resist the knee-jerk urge to roll my eyes. “Yes, sir.”

He doesn’t acknowledge the ‘sir’ like I thought he might. Instead he sits on the edge of my bed and buttons the final buttons up his collar while I watch with detached interest. There was so much more I wanted to talk about. We left so much half-said. I still feel in the dark. I am still so confused. I don’t even know how far in over my head I am. We can talk about it later, though, right? That was what he said? Maybe I just don’t want him to leave. Maybe I just want him to further acknowledge anything that happened today before I go crazy.

I quickly pull on an oversized t-shirt and boy shorts and walk with Petyr to the living room.

I give him a kiss on the cheek goodbye, simply because it feels right. I feel shy as I pull back, as ridiculous as that sounds. He smiles at me briefly with such a genuine warmth that it fills the holes of worry inside me.

Halfway out the door, Petyr pauses and turns his head.

“I was serious, by the way.” He smiles again, but this time it’s sly and raw and ruthless— a different shard of Petyr Baelish. “About asking permission. Okay?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow I really said "I'll likely be focusing a little less on the smut" at the end of last chapter
> 
> thank you for sharing your thoughts with me, and just for reading at all! ♥
> 
> edit: I edited the sex at the very very end pretty dang heavily, as in basically rewrote it, but nothing anywhere else. I heard it was good form to be transparent about these things! I figured life is short so just fucking make it nasty to your true heart's content and be free. we all die so make your smut filthy as you want, cheers


	12. if you'll let me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s your choice. I just need to know that you understand what’s really happening here before you decide. I want to keep you safe if you’ll let me.”
> 
> She looks at me with her giant shining eyes, a glimmer of hope buried beneath the sadness.
> 
> “It won’t be forever. I have plans for them, remember?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for character death

12  
Petyr

[ San Francisco ]  
⟶ Wednesday

 

I’ve been sitting at this table in this empty hotel bar for fifty minutes. Maybe an hour.

I’ve tried to make use of the time by answering emails and such. Eventually, though, there aren’t any more replies to make or notes to write and I’m left staring into space with the soft lobby noises filling my brain like static. 

I’m starting to doubt my own observations about a certain person’s drinking patterns when she finally walks into the bar. I smile to myself. Twenty minutes later than yesterday, but here she is.

And she’s alone, which is ideal. 

Cersei Lannister heads straight for the far side of the bar top, sitting the furthest she can from the side that borders the lobby full of people. The bartender recognizes her right away and rushes to take her order. 

She wears the same modestly-cut red dress as she wore earlier at the main meeting, now with an overcoat pulled around her like a blanket. And while she carries herself with her usual uncompromising posture, her head droops with exhaustion. She looks like she doesn’t want to be bothered— that’s my cue.

I cross the room and take the seat to her left, smiling wide like I’m delighted to have run into her.

She makes a disgruntled noise. “Seven hells, you just _materialize_.”

“My apologies, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Does no other seat at this bar suit you, Mr. Baelish?”

I look to the row of tall chairs to my left— all empty apart from a tourist couple at the opposite end.

“This is the only one with company. It seems one o’clock in the afternoon is a lonely time for us drinkers. We’ve got to stick together.”

The bartender slides Cersei her drink. I see him hesitating nervously from the corner of my eye, so I turn my head and smile at him with teeth.

“I’ll have the same. Thank you.”

He takes the hint and backs away towards his station. Seeing Cersei Lannister in person has a certain effect on people— one that I used to have sympathy for, but have slowly lost my patience with.

“Some really exciting material today, no?” I ask.

She glares at the muted television mounted across from us.

“You know, the presenter— David-something, he told me about that secret project he’s been developing.”

Cersei shuts her eyes.

“Period drama. That’s the one thing you haven’t done, isn’t it?”

“I can’t do it,” she snaps.

“Why not? The role was _meant_ for you from what I read. And he just got into Cannes with his last short film.”

“I don’t—”

“Work with independent directors?”

She flicks her long loose hair over her shoulder.

“What are you getting at, Baelish?”

“I’m not getting at anything, I just thought it would be of interest to you.”

“That’s so kind of you, to ambush me for my own good.”

I laugh like it was a joke I was meant to be in on.

“For the good of Lannisport,” I correct.

She doesn’t answer me for a long sip. The bartender leaves my drink in front of me, backing away again with haste. I take it but don’t drink. It’s a prop more than anything.

“I already have something booked for two months of his shooting schedule. I can’t.”

I give myself a moment to act confused.

“I thought you declined that BBC project?”

“It’s something else.”

“I’m sorry… is there a reason I don’t know about this?” I act a little upset, allowing her this small moment of high ground over me.

Sure enough, she smirks. “You’re a trusted advisor, Baelish, but you don’t own the company. Don’t act so surprised.”

“I apologize, I didn’t… I don’t expect to be let in on everything.”

She scoffs. “No, but you always sneak your way in, anyway, don’t you?”

I raise my hands in surrender. “I’m just trying to be helpful.”

“It would be helpful for you to go away.”

I laugh again like she’s joking.

“Out of curiosity, when is this mystery project scheduled to release?”

She sets down her empty glass, frowning. “Next summer.”

I nod silently like this has answered all my questions, then smile and stand.

She straightens up as I turn to leave. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason. You’re the queen of blockbusters, Cersei. No one can deny that.”

She scoffs. “Is that supposed to be an insult? Surely you can do better.” 

“It’s not an insult,” I argue, sitting back down. “It’s your brand. You’re expensive, you’re exclusive, you’re… consistent.”

Cersei gestures impatiently for another drink and angles her body towards me.

“Still sounds like an insult.”

“Why?”

“You’re calling me boring.”

“No, you’re calling you boring. I don’t think you are. You’re incredibly talented.”

“But?”

I sigh. “Summer blockbusters don’t generally win Academy Awards. Not that you _care_ about that.”

Cersei turns away from me after as the bartender returns to deposit her second round. 

This is her hot button issue, especially ever since Jamie won best supporting actor two years ago. She wants one more than anything, as much as she’d deny it. I just have to press.

“And you think David is going to win an Oscar for his first ever feature?” she asks, scathing.

“It’s not his first feature, and honestly? Probably not. But it would open that door.”

She twists her glass and shakes her head, but I can see her thinking.

“Even if I wanted to, I can’t back out of what I have.”

“Ah, I see. You’ve signed the dotted line.”

She doesn’t answer, but I know she hasn’t. She hasn’t signed anything yet. It’s Tywin who is telling her to take the role for this Netflix series she thinks I don’t know about. If she pulls out, Tywin will have to withdraw his funding for the project, which is what I need him to do.

I’ve planted the seed of doubt. I’ll come back and water it later.

“Not to worry. You’ll likely be in-demand until the day you die. You won’t ever run out of work.”

“And you won’t ever run out of suggestions,” she deadpans.

“It’s my job,” I smile.

“Is it? You seem to take on a lot of extra duties without being asked.”

I shrug with a playful flourish. “What can I say? I love what I do.”

“I’m sure you do.” Her mouth twists into a mean little smile like she’s remembering something. “Is that why you’re toting Sansa Stark around like a hand bag? You do seem to ‘love’ that.”

“Sansa’s here to learn about the business,” I tell her.

“And you’re teaching her? Out of the goodness of your heart?” The cruel joy on her face as she taunts me is not a good omen.

“I’m teaching her because her mind is good for it,” I say simply.

“‘Because her mind is good for it,’” Cersei repeats, tasting the words with a smirk. “Is that all you’re interested in, Littlefinger? Her mind?”

“And her name,” I say smoothly, ignoring the implication. I glance over my shoulder as someone enters the bar— just a business man, opening his laptop at a table near the entrance. Still, I keep my voice down. “And so is your father, for that matter.”

“Yes, yes,” she waves, “but she’s a pretty little thing, isn’t she?”

“She is,” I agree easily.

“My Joff thought so. I’m not sure why you think she has a place here, though. Unless that place is your bed… although I can’t see a proud Stark stooping to that level. She’s too good for you.”

“I agree.”

She looks at me with plain annoyance. I was hoping to skip along the surface of this topic with my short replies, but it appears I’ve only made her want to dig in.

“You agree?”

“I agree,” I repeat, shrugging.

“She reminds you of her mother, doesn’t she?” She shakes her head and smiles. It’s almost appreciative.

She’s having fun now, which won’t tide well for me. The woman is like a killer whale playing with its food. She keeps me alive just for fun as she throws me around rips me apart with her teeth. I could spew a lot of hard truth to Cersei about herself and her relationships but I hold my tongue for the sake of my own survival.

“One wonders what uses a pretty underage girl could serve a creep like you. The sum of all her valuable insight can’t possibly be worth even the price of the plane ticket. So what it is? Does she make you feel young again?” 

“She’s not underage.”

She raises her eyebrows in response and turns away with a glint in her eye. I realize I’ve said the wrong thing. I clear my throat right away.

“Listen, the girl is useful. And she can be even more so with some direction.” 

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to let her know any more than she needs to in order to work the copy machine,” she scoffs, taking another sip. “Don’t trust a Stark, even a little one. Especially that little one.”

“And why not?”

“First— she’s the daughter of our best enemies. That should be enough. And, as much as I love Joffrey, she also had the misfortune of dating him. That leaves a mark— she’s got to hate us. And maybe it doesn’t make a difference now, but that kind of hatred never leaves a person. It only festers.”

Interesting. “You think the girl hates you?”

“If she didn’t before…” She laughs dryly and rubs a hand over her face. “She will now.”

There’s a loaded silence. My stomach drops. “Now what?”

She throws back the rest of her drink and lays a fifty dollar bill on the counter, pointedly avoiding eye contact.

“Now nothing. Try not to bother me again at least until we’re back in Los Angeles, will you?”

She walks away, out of the bar and towards the elevators, heels clicking against marble.

I listen to the sound echo around the lobby and gradually fade away completely, head ringing.

When it comes to the Lannisters, Cersei is obviously inner circle despite not knowing quite as much as she thinks she does. Tywin likes to let her play queen of the castle, letting her in on certain issues to keep her ego satiated and withholding the rest to limit damage. But this… Cersei knows something that I don’t, which means Tywin is up to something.

I’ve always known what Tywin Lannister was capable of. I never let myself forget it. 

I also know that the Starks have been more problematic than ever this year. For whatever reason they’ve decided to try their hand at playing offense, and not well. I know for a fact that Ned Stark came across the knowledge of a certain incestuous relationship last month, but… it turns out that acquiring leverage means little to nothing when you don’t know what to do with it.

Tywin’s been able to keep them in line, even after that mess last year that ended in the lawsuit. That was supposed to be their warning. That was the Lannister version of kindness. That was supposed to be the end of it. I’m guessing it didn’t take.

 

I’m guessing Tywin Lannister decided to kill Eddard Stark, after all.

—————————————

I stay at the bar after Cersei leaves to think through what comes next. I find Sansa in my texts.

 **P. Baelish:** _Still at the Legion?_

I took her to the Legion of Honor after the meeting at ILM as a place to debrief. I wanted to be away from the hotel and all the people crawling around it. Really, I just knew she would love it. It’s a magical place, overlooking the bay and the Golden Gate Bridge, surrounded by plenty of grass and old trees and often an ominous fog that burns away gradually through the afternoon.

Mostly I love it for its grandiosity, for being so full of so many old and beautiful things. Delicate things, rare things, priceless pieces of art revered by the masses. I wanted to witness her seeing it for the first time, and I did. I was right to think she would love it— she wanted to stay behind to explore some of the wings more thoroughly when I left to ambush Cersei.

 **S. Stark:** _Headed back now!_

That’s when I notice the TV again, tuned into a news channel on mute. There’s an aerial shot of Los Angeles and a headline at the bottom that confirms my suspicions: “4 Dead in DTLA Cafe Attack” accompanied by four small photos of the slain. 

The first two are Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully.

The only thing I can register for a long moment is that they used her maiden name. Such a small detail, but it stabs me. It feels like true pain for a moment, but it’s not— it’s only the swift jolt of shock, dissipating as quickly at it came. I’ve been mourning Cat for years. Perhaps now I can finally stop. 

The pictures on screen disappear, replaced by live footage of an on-site reporter. He stands a block away from the mass of emergency responders swarming around a wrecked cafe.

There aren’t captions, but I still get the gist of what’s being explained. 

It helps that I can already assume exactly what happened and who did it, of course— Tywin finally took down the problem child of his business allies, or at least its CEO.

I had no idea this was happening. I obviously wasn’t present when the decision was made— it wasn’t even hinted at in any way beforehand to me. I’m not sure how I feel about that, especially seeing how I was the architect of the entire operation. I’m one who first suggested the idea of the bomb, I was the one who chose the original crew of men, and I was the one to scout the location— this was two or three years ago, though, and the situation was nonspecific and hypothetical at the time.

Still, though, the disaster on screen is essentially my design. The blood is on my hands. Even if I didn’t pull the trigger, I provided the gun and laid out the map, didn’t I?

Eddard and Catelyn Stark are dead.

I take my first sip of the drink I ordered earlier and allow myself a small smile.

It happened. It worked. I sure would’ve liked to be let in on the whole thing, but regardless, Tywin used my idea and it worked. I’d honestly assumed the idea had been dropped— to my knowledge it hadn’t been spoken of in years, yet here we are.

Judging by the silent footage playing in front of me, no obvious traces were left at the scene. It’s still early but the police are clueless so far and, if my plan was indeed closely followed, I know they’ll stay that way. The other two deaths were from those of Ned’s inner circle, so are ultimately of no consequence.

I feel almost high. This changes everything.

I won’t bother pretending to feel guilty, or to feel guilty about not feeling guilty, or any of that; there’s no point in lying— not to myself, at least. It’s a waste of time and energy. I know what I am, I made peace with it a long time ago. If the hells exist, I am going— of that there is no doubt. 

In the meantime, I have shit to do.

This development feels like skies opening up after rain, like a cleansing flood, like wild music and loud thunder and chaos. I finish my drink, thoughts racing. Everything can change now. Things can _move_ now.

The only tugging at my heart comes from the thought of Sansa. 

**P. Baelish:** _Go straight to my room when you get back, okay? I’ll explain._

It occurs to me that there’s a chance that in the little time it takes her to get from Richmond District to Union Square, Sansa will find out somehow— either from her siblings, friends, the internet, or a TV in a shop window. 

**S. Stark:** _Okay :)_

I’m not sure what’s worse— having to tell Sansa that her parents are dead, or just leaving her to find out through a notification on her phone, alone in an Uber. 

I tip the bartender then leave, taking the elevator to the eleventh floor.

Seven hells. I’m about to level Sansa’s entire world in one sentence. An uneasiness twists in my chest at the thought. I may not have any serious qualms about taking out her parents, but leaving her parentless… that’s different. The guilt that evaded me initially now weaves thick and heavy around my ribcage. I hate it.

The truth is that Ned Stark put his whole company and family on a sinking ship and it would’ve taken Sansa down with it if something hadn’t changed. If I hadn’t brought her to San Fransisco, she theoretically could’ve been at that cafe with her parents this morning. She could’ve easily been killed along with them.

Stupidity is dangerous. Ned Stark was simply crushed by the weight of his, thinking he could fuck with the Lannisters. Sansa wasn’t safe under his “protection.” She never was. The only difference now is that her father isn’t around to comfort her with false platitudes about honor or strength or whatever the hells it is that Starks think they can wear as armor. Pride and blind allegiance to absolute truth don’t protect from a knife in the back, and it certainly doesn’t provide immunity from explosives. As was proved today.

I only want to keep her safe, and I will. I may be the only one qualified to do it at this point. 

I know for a fact that she’ll be better off this way, in the long run. Sansa is not like the others, she’s capable of being more. Now she’ll have the freedom to be— she’ll have the opportunity to mould herself in her own image, and possibly to mould the company in her image, as well. She’s smarter than the rest of them.

But that still doesn’t lessen the damage this is going to inflict.

 

Fifteen minutes later there’s a soft knock at my door.

I’m both relieved and heavy-hearted to see her face smiling at me from the other side of the threshold. She doesn’t know.

“Come in,” I say with a tight smile. I check the hall quickly, but no one’s there to have seen her.

As always, she is so beautiful. Her hair is windswept and her are cheeks pink, presumably from the chill outside. She shrugs off her coat and sits on my bed, still in her work clothes from this morning. Peeking out from her purse are a thin stack of artwork postcards I recognize from the art museum gift shop. This little detail breaks my heart. She’s so happy.

“I want to live at the Legion,” she announces. “I just need a sleeping bag. I’ll never want for anything else.”

I laugh, but it hurts.

“Did you get to talk to Cersei?” she asks, tucking her feet around and under her so that she sits as comfortably as she can in the skirt. 

I know that I need to lead with the hardest part. I just need to say it. It’s not my place to draw this out when it’s something this important to her. And if I don’t say it now… I just have to say it now. I just have to.

“Sansa, sweetling… I’m sorry. Something’s happened and I have to tell you.” I sit beside her gently. “There was an incident in LA this morning. An explosion at a restaurant. Your parents were there. They’re… gone. They were killed.”

She blinks at me. “What do you mean they were killed?”

“It was on the news. It just happened.”

“Oh,” she says, processing. Then, casually dismissive, “No, that’s… No.”

Then her phone starts vibrating like crazy beside her— not a call, but the frantic rhythm of a hundred notifications piling on top of each other. Her face whitens.

“I’m sorry, Sansa.”

She snatches up her phone and shakes her head, scrolling and reading. “Wait. No. No, I just saw them. I just saw them on Sunday.”

I sit silently beside her, wishing it wasn’t like this. She looks up at me from her phone, blue eyes shining. 

“I just saw them,” she insists again.

I take her hands.

“But we had dinner,” she protests. “All of us. We all went home, we— we—” A panicked little gasp swallows her words.

She tears away and starts frantically scrolling through her phone again.

She’s grasping for something but I’m ultimately helpless to help her in any significant way.

“Arya,” she whispers. She dials lightning-fast and holds her phone to her ear with determination. She growls in frustration when she gets voicemail and switches to text instead. I can’t see what she’s typing from my position but I can see that the blue bubbles are flying fast and are getting no answer.

Sansa stands and dials again. “What time is it in England right now?”

“Should be around ten at night,” I answer.

“Come on, Robb,” she murmurs, mindlessly chewing one of her fingernails as the line rings.

I completely forgot about Robb Stark for a second there. Did Tywin deal with him, too? Or did he leave the kid to struggle with the fallout as punishment enough? It frustrates me to no end that I don’t have that answer. Why wasn’t I told? Why wasn’t I asked to advise on this? I might’ve advised against all of it. I might’ve found another way. 

“Robb, hey, it’s Sansa.” She takes a second to compose herself, but her voice still wobbles. “I think something really bad happened. Mom and Dad—” Her voice breaks and she covers her eyes. “I just really need you to call me back. I really need you to call me back as soon as you can. I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know what to do. Please call me back.”

She hangs up and screams into her hands. When she’s done, she lets silence settle the room again over the course of a few deep, deliberate breaths.

“An explosion?” She turns to me, eyes desperate for any kind of sense.

“Apparently so.”

“Like some electrical thing? Like an accident?” I can see in her eyes she knows it wasn’t an accident.

“It’s possible,” I say anyway.

“Or like a terrorist attack?”

“Maybe.”

“But maybe not?” she prompts, drawing closer.

“I don’t know, Sansa.”

“You don’t know or you don’t want to tell me?” she asks, voice climbing.

“I don’t know anything for sure,” I soothe.

“Tell me,” she says, suddenly grounded again. She knows.

I sigh. “Did your parents go to that place a lot?”

“Yeah,” she whispers. “Yeah, they do…they did.” 

“Then it was likely intentional.”

Dead silence. “The Lannisters. Right?”

“I think Tywin has a motive, yes.”

She wraps her arms around herself protectively. “He… killed my parents?”

“It’s possible. But he won’t harm you, Sansa. I’ll make sure of it.”

This clearly hadn’t occurred to her. “Harm me?”

I originally thought it unlikely that Tywin would care enough about Sansa to go after her… but then again, I probably shouldn’t be so sure of what Tywin Lannister will or won’t do anymore. Today proved that there are still things I don’t know, things being kept from me. 

Sansa is certainly in more danger than she was yesterday, if only due to her worth being sliced in half the second Ned Stark's heart stopped. Her place among the Lannisters was symbolic of the two families getting along— if only one remains, then there’s no reason to keep the symbol around, is there? It might even be smarter to repurpose the symbol altogether. 

They have no practical use for her anymore and she knows more about them than they’d probably like. None of them particularly like her— at least two Lannisters that I know of actively dislike her, one of those being the most sadistic teenager I’ve ever met with a taste for violence against women.

There’s a lot of possibilities for how this could go for Sansa. Too many, now that I think of it. I need to remove her from the equation until those possibilities narrow in our favor.

“I’ll keep you safe.”

“How?”

“You need to disappear for a while. At least until I figure out what to do about Tywin.”

“What do you mean, ‘what to do about Tywin?’ And where am I supposed to disappear to exactly? Do you really think I’m in actual—?”

“Sansa,” I stop her, cutting straight to the point. “Your mother is dead. Your father is dead. Your oldest brother is on another continent. Your other brother is also on another continent. Cersei distrusts you, Joffrey hates you, and Tywin listens to them because they yell the loudest. And he is not afraid of using force. Do you think they’ll want to keep you as an office pet now that they don’t have to? Do you think they’ll just let you go?”

“I’m not a threat to them,” she whispers, “they wouldn’t hurt me.”

“I disagree. And even if they didn’t, you’d still be under their thumb for the rest of your life. Do you want that? Do you want to serve a life sentence under your parents’ murderers? Do you want to be Joffrey’s play thing again?”

Sansa flinches. We’ve never talked about Joffrey before. 

“No,” she whispers.

“I’m not trying to force you,” I say more softly. “It’s your choice. I just need to know that you understand what’s really happening here before you decide. I want to keep you safe if you’ll let me.”

She looks at me with her giant shining eyes, a glimmer of hope buried beneath the sadness.

“It won’t be forever. I have plans for them, remember?”

Her lips curve up for a split second in a heartbreaking half-smile and she nods. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

She nods again and sniffs. I reach out and catch a single tear from rolling down her cheek.

“What about Arya and Bran and Rickon?”

“One thing at a time,” I tell her. “But I have an idea. It involves your Aunt Lysa. We’ll figure it out, I’ll help you.”

She looks at me like she wants to believe me, tears forming once again.

“I will help you, Sansa,” I repeat. “I know it doesn’t feel like it, but you will survive this.”

I press my lips to her forehead in what I hope is a comforting gesture. It’s then that she finally collapses into real tears, letting me hold her completely.

I mean it. She will survive this and I will help. 

I already have a million ideas.

First, though, I need to find her the best way out of here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> enter cersei & enter #death
> 
> idk tbh. this is probably messy. cheers!
> 
>  
> 
> also hi I may go back and actually name my chapters for convenience (heads up)
> 
> and here's my [tumblr](https://steeltemper.tumblr.com/) & and a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/48mNGCq29WpsZhhBsOXRWn?si=pXPc_u8DT4WrXpOUU2Dk3w) that I made that I am shamelessly plugging because I, like most people, love my own taste in music and believe it is objectively perfect. so, again, cheers! lol.
> 
> anyways, thanks!


	13. a hollow twinge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Prove you’re not a threat._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _Show your willingness to accept._
> 
> _Make it public._
> 
> _Leave quietly, stay quiet._
> 
> I agreed. 
> 
>  
> 
> What was the alternative? Run away?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> life is inherently meaningless and we’re all spinning around on a ball doing circles in space and thinking about made-up ideas that we somehow absorb from looking at little symbols on pages so enjoy these ones and also maybe drink some water. if i sound fucking insane it’s because i am. hope you enjoy!

13  
Sansa

Petyr’s idea of ‘keeping me safe’ and ‘disappearing for a while’ is insane. Horrible and insane.

I feel neither safe nor ‘disappeared' surrounded in the hotel lobby by the Lannister entourage wanting to express their sympathies before I leave for the airport.

Cersei Lannister is wrapping her arms around me in front of the small audience. I, in return, am allowing it. Her torso stays pulled away from mine at the center of the hug, though, like I’m infected and it’s contagious. 

I wonder why she bothers. She could probably get away with avoiding me completely; it’s not like I actually interact with her anymore. 

Is it to be seen as a good person? Maybe she’s expected to show compassion to any member of a respectable family on equal footing with hers— some unspoken high society thing. 

Maybe it’s because the world knows I used to be more important to her when I was the very public sweetheart of her golden boy. Does that necessitate pretending to care? For her image? For his?

Feeling her stiff arms around me, I can handle. What threatens to make me lose it, however, is her overwhelmingly warm spiced scent. I hate it. I hate it so much that I want to tear away from her, screaming. 

I think of my mother—her signature scent wasn’t half as offensive as the artificial baked-good chemical aroma assaulting me now. It was always light and cool and subtlety sweet. 

I’ll never smell it cradled in one of her embraces again.

“Sweet girl,” Cersei murmurs to me. “We are all so sorry. Please extend our condolences to your aunt.”

Her words feel like nothing because they are nothing. They move through the air and reach my ears, but that’s it.

At least she doesn’t have the nerve to comment on the tragedy of the thing. I don’t know what I’d do if she starting lamenting the horrific manner of their death.

I feel Petyr’s presence behind me somewhere, reminding me to keep steady.

_Prove you’re not a threat._

_Show your willingness to accept._

_Make it public._

_Leave quietly, stay quiet._

I agreed. What was the alternative, run away? Running only makes way for chasing, or so I’ve been made to learn. If I can pretend now, I might be free later.

Now I’m just waiting for the part where I can get out of here.

“Thank you,” I whisper with my prettiest sad smile. “I will.”

Cersei reaches out and smoothes my hair. Her fingers are cold. I want so badly to recoil.

“So dutiful,” she says softly and, surprisingly, without a trace of malice. “You are their daughter.” 

I swallow hard.

“Alright,” a voice comes to save me. “You’ve said your piece, Cersei, now move aside.”

Tyrion Lannister approaches to replace his sister in front of me, a pained sort of tenderness bleeding through the cracks in his usual sarcastic grin. 

I grit my teeth inside my melancholy mask of a face until it hurts.

I don’t care how genuine he is or how much better he seems than the rest of them. I don’t want to hear any more sympathies from any more Lannisters— not even one I thought I liked.

I thought I barely knew Tyrion, or at least that I knew him the same amount any other underling in the office would… 

But what I’m coming to realize is that every Lannister knows _me._ They’ve always known me.

Even when I thought I was invisible, they all knew exactly who I was. They always had, because that was the point, wasn’t it? It was beyond naive to think I was ever no one to them. 

I was the only one unaware in this arrangement. I was the only one blind.

I watch him stop in front of me and struggle to decide what to say. I try to imagine all the times he must have sat across from my father in meetings and negotiations with this same seemingly harmless smile.

“Sansa,” he starts, thoughtful but hesitant, “you are clearly every good thing your parents gave you. I can see it. And because of that, I can say I know you will do them proud. I wish this hadn’t happened. I am so sorry that it did.”

“Thank you,” I say, perhaps a bit too neutrally— too lifelessly to be natural. Every one of my abdominal muscles _burns_ from staying tensed for so long while I strain to keep the rest of me relaxed.

His smile slips further into the actual sadness underneath.

“I’m always available for coffee or advice or a rant,” Tyrion adds with a light sort of sincerity, “back in LA. I love to talk but I also love to listen— right? Aren’t I a great listener?”

Tyrion looks to a young man waiting behind him amongst the others for back up— an earnest-looking, dark-haired, scuffed-up satchel-toting young man. He looks surprised to have been mentioned; he meets my gaze with wide eyes.

I recognize him immediately but honestly don’t have it in me to react. Of course Marg and I’s weird Uber driver from last weekend happens to work for Tyrion Lannister. Of course he does. Why not? I might laugh if I wasn’t entirely hollowed out inside.

The guy looks slightly terrified to be included in the conversation. Sure, other strangers attached to the Lannisters are witnessing this farewell of sorts, but it somehow feels different to have _him_ here for it. 

He’s not quite a stranger, but not really an acquaintance, either. He's just… a peer, watching me swallow every inch of my pride in the most painful and personal circumstance imaginable. Even so, I can’t spare enough energy to process that discomfort; I can only stare at him blankly.

“Yeah,” Pod says nodding, clearly having already recognized me, too, but not willing to say so first. “Great listener.”

I nod solemnly because that’s what I would do if I didn’t absolutely loathe every single one of them. 

“Right. Thank you.”

I see Petyr step closer to the group in my peripheral vision and check his watch.

Tyrion notices Petyr and looks back to me. “Take care of yourself, Ms. Stark.”

He leaves, Pod trailing after him.

Cersei has already floated away to the hotel bar and Tywin left a few minutes ago to ‘tend to other business.’ 

How kind of the Lannister family to take time out of their work day to console me. Me, a singular lowly intern. How selfless.

 _‘This tragedy will force us into a new age,’_ Tywin had said to me, quiet and stern and grandfatherly. _‘Your parents were brilliant and will be greatly missed, but I can think of no better mind to continue their legacy.’_

I responded with my best impersonation of blind emotional gratitude, feeling all the while like my heart had been scraped from my chest. Raw and empty, burning with the pain of absence.

I know Petyr spoke to him on my behalf; I don’t know what was said, but Tywin seems to see me as something of potential use rather than pure inconvenience. That provides a thin layer of protection for now. 

I worry for Robb, who is supposed to be the one to continuing the legacy. Robb, who hasn’t called me back and has been known to cause more than inconvenience when provoked.

All that’s left now in the lobby are curious onlookers, people who noticed the small group of important-looking figures and that one famous actress centered around one very sad, plain girl.

They avert their eyes as soon as they notice me notice them. Good.

“Let’s go,” Petyr says quietly.

I lead, pulling my small suitcase outside and onto the crowded sidewalk where a line of town cars and taxis fight for curbside space. 

A young driver in wire-rimmed glasses emerges from a nondescript black SUV and makes towards us. He wordlessly takes my bag and hoists it into the trunk.

“Jack will take you right up to the terminal. When you touch down in LA, don’t leave the gate until you know Lysa is there.”

I nod once.

Petyr’s hand comes up like he’s going to touch my arm or maybe my cheek, but he quickly drops it back down to his side smoothly instead.

“I’ll see you soon,” he finishes, and walks back into the hotel. Somewhere inside me I feel a hollow twinge. I turn away, follow Jack to the car, and climb inside.

Silently I thank him for not uttering a single word.

This continues the entire ride. Blessedly, he doesn’t even play the radio— we just sit in pure silence and the ice cold AC. I close my eyes and try to make sense of everything that has happened today and everything that lies ahead.

 

 

I’ve always found airports strangely comforting. 

Everything is simpler here. It’s safe. There are a few places to eat, a few gift shops to browse, and plenty of orderly rows of seats to wait in. There’s a certain beauty and comfort in the simplicity of limited options.

No one knows me here. No one knows what has happened. No one knows my pain or can exploit it. 

I could theoretically go anywhere in the world right now, if I wanted. It wouldn’t be difficult. I could run away and assume a new name and leave this mess behind. Maybe Washington… or Alaska… or Vancouver…

But no. I could never actually consider it.

If for no other reason, I need to go back for Bran and Rickon and Arya. I’m the oldest Stark left in the States, now. I have a responsibility to my family.  
The thought of suddenly having that responsibility conjures the image of my father sitting at the head of our table, smiling at me with his unsaid thoughts. I never imagined a situation like this; I feel sick. Unprepared. 

_‘You know your way, always have,’_ I remember him saying that last night in Winterfell. _‘You’re a smart girl, Sansa.’_

Why did he say that? Did he suspect something? And why would he think that of me at all?

Smart girl, sweet girl, good girl… everyone seems to think I am these things. I am none of those things. I am just lost.

I buy a bag of Skittles and a bottle of water from a kiosk and settle into a seat near the window by my gate.

I watch as a stewardess takes tickets from the last few travelers boarding a flight to New Orleans. She half-heartedly fends off flirtatious banter from a coworker, grinning.

A woman in the waiting area early for a flight to Portland rests her eyes with her chin atop the sleeping toddler in her lap. 

A couple of old men drinking Bloody Marys howl with laughter over each other’s stories at the tiny sports bar next to the news stand.

How can that be? 

How can everything be so normal? 

Something fundamental has been split wide open at the center of my world, but for everyone else it just keeps on turning. It just keeps spinning like nothing has happened.

No matter what, the world keeps spinning.

I eat my Skittles one piece at a time. I eat them in sequence of the rainbow— red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, repeat. It gives me something to focus on. My phone sits in my lap, face up and on full volume so that I don’t miss any calls or texts.

Bran and Rickon are already with Aunt Lysa in Brentwood but Arya has yet to be heard from by anyone. When she gets it together and calls me back, I don’t want to miss it. 

An idea occurs to me. I drop the candy in favor of my phone, navigate my way to Twitter and Instagram, and type out the same general message to her on both— _Please message me back, it’s important. Where are you? This is serious._ Luckily she unblocked me from both a couple months ago, or I wouldn’t even be able to do this. 

If for some reason she’s lost access to her phone, this way she’ll be able to see my messages on any internet-enabled device she can log into. It worries me that this is something I have to consider at all, though. Where is she and why hasn’t she responded? If she’s ignoring me just to be difficult, she’ll realize her mistake soon enough. If she’s not…

I remember Snapchat’s friend location-tracking feature and open that. I highly doubt that Arya has the feature enabled but I figure it’s worth a look anyway.

I’m right; the map is smattered with some of my Snapchat contacts across Los Angeles, but none of them are Arya. I’m not surprised but still disappointed.

I do notice Margaery’s avatar located near Venice Beach, though. I wonder if she’s seen the news. 

I tap to view her story, craving the familiarity and comfort of a friend. Maybe I’ll call her after, maybe she can help me figure out what to do next.

The first picture in the story sequence is of the crowded boardwalk along the beach. Marg’s hand holds an ice cream cone out in the foreground at an aesthetically pleasing angle. 

The second is a short clip of Trystane Martell making silly faces at a busker painted in gold posing like a statue. Voices giggle from behind the camera.

The third is a selfie of Marg and Joffrey Baratheon together, wearing funny sunglasses from one of those dime-a-dozen novelty t-shirt shops.

I guess my heart still had room to sink further in my chest.

_What? Marg… and Joffrey?_

Their cheeks are touching and the photo is slightly blurred from her picture-taking hand shaking with apparent laughter. Crunched into frame is the pink-haired girl I met at the Mockingbird, but her presence in the photo is an afterthought.

Marg took and posted a photo of her and Joffrey hanging out. _Hanging out._ Together. ‘Betrayal’ doesn’t begin to describe the acidic churning in my gut. There in equal measure is confusion, which stings like a slap in the face.

The worst part is how genuinely happy they look. And how… innocent it seems. 

I can’t look at it anymore. I lock and drop my phone back into my lap but my knowledge of the photo’s existence is trapped in my brain. I’m not cold, but I start to shake. _What the fuck? What the fuck? What the fuck?_

I carefully place a red skittle into my mouth, willing my sanity to reassemble itself before I have to get onto the plane.

“Hey, Ms. Stark,” I hear my from my left, the voice polite and careful.

It’s… Pod. 

Pod, who I just saw in the hotel lobby less than an hour ago. Why would he be on this flight? The conference isn’t over yet, and I don’t see Tyrion anywhere.

He carefully sits down next to me with his small carry-on beside him, leaving two empty seats between us.

I look at him skeptically. “Hey.”

We both wait for the other to say something more. When it doesn’t happen, Pod leans back, whips out his phone, and starts mindlessly scrolling. I relax in my seat and eat a few more Skittles in silence.

“‘Sansa’ is fine,” I decide to offer finally, not looking at him.

“Pod,” he returns.

“I remember.”

“Oh.” I see his head turn towards me in surprise. “Right. Cool.”

“Do you want some Skittles?” I ask, holding up the bag. 

I don’t really know what else to do. I refuse to open my phone again unless Robb or Arya’s name appears on screen first, and I don’t have the focus or the will to read anything. 

So I extend the little red pouch further towards Pod the Uber driver/Lannister assistant, the only friendly face I have near.

He smiles. “Yeah, sure! Thanks.”

I pour a little handful into his palm, my hand shaking visibly as I do so.

“Too much caffeine,” I lie before he asks, drawing my hand back.

He nods like he understands.

“It really sucks,” he says after a second, staring at the rainbow candies in his palm instead of at me. “What happened.”

‘What happened.’ My parents. Remembering over and over again is like getting hit by a train every five minutes. It doesn’t quite hurt yet the way it maybe should, but it still feels like getting hit with something large and blunt regardless.

“Yeah,” I agree hollowly. Then to my own surprise I add, “Guess it doesn’t feel real yet. I’ve got a lot of other stuff to deal with.”

It’s like my determination to keep moving forward is my buffer, the only thing keeping me from being completely flattened by the weight of it all.

I sense his concern, which isn’t what I was after. I twist in my seat, tucking a leg up to face him better.

“I’m sorry, have I seen you around before? Should I have recognized you sooner? That night—” I stop. 

Seven hells. That night. _He heard me talk about Petyr that night._ Horror blooms in my stomach.

“No, no. I work for Tyrion, not for Lannisport,” he answers casually, “and not usually full time. I don’t think we’ve crossed paths before then. I would’ve remembered.” 

I’m not sure what he means saying he ‘would’ve remembered.’ Did he know who I was that night? I stare at the ground, unsure of what to do. 

This guy knows about me and Petyr. He knows. How has this one random dude come to learn so much about me? It’s bizarre, but looking at him now… I guess, out of everyone, Pod is not the worst possible inadvertent secret keeper to accidentally acquire.

“You only work for Tyrion?” I ask cautiously. Maybe the damage isn’t that bad. Maybe this isn’t necessarily a reason to panic.

“Yeah,” he nods, popping a couple of green skittles. “I don’t fuck with the Lannisport shit at all.” He laughs. “I help him a few days a week with daily stuff and his side projects. He’s a really smart guy, you know. Very forward-thinking.”

I relax a bit. Pod hasn’t said anything about Petyr or even hinted at it, so why should I assume he cares? That he thought it was important enough information to remember or relay?

“Oh. Cool,” I say. I watch a little girl at another gate wave the broken pieces of her plastic princess crown in her dad’s face, crying.

“I forgot how good these are,” he mutters to himself.

“Have long have you been working for Tyrion?” I ask to fill the silence, turning away from the princess.

He shrugs. “Two years, maybe a little more. I used to sell him his weed before it was legalized. We had a lot of interesting conversations; he thought I was smart, he liked me. He needed help. And I had nothing to do with his family, so, you know.” He laughs. “The rest is history.”

“Nothing to do with his family?”

“Oh yeah,” he raises his eyebrows,“they have issues.”

“Ah,” I say, even though I can only guess what that really means. 

“He’s not like them,” he adds. “Sometimes I think half my job is being his friend.”

“Sounds like you are. His friend, I mean.”

“Yeah, I guess I am.”

There’s a comfortable silence.

Something occurs to me.

“Pod,” I start, “did Tyrion send you home early to be with me? To follow me? Is that why you’re here?” 

He looks at me, looks away, shrugs with a shoulder.

I guess I appreciate the honesty. “Uh… Why?” 

He shrugs again with the other shoulder.

Part of me wants to be angry or even worried about this but an even larger part of me just wants a friend. Not a mentor, _not_ Margaery, not even my own family. I just want a friend. And he’s sitting right there.

“Do I need to be worried?”

“About me? No, why?” he answers.

 _Why, indeed._

“I’m being—” at the last second I change my word choice— “ _babysat_ by a stranger.”

 _A stranger sent by a Lannister,_ I don’t say. I was going to say _spied on_ by a stranger but that would’ve implied that I knew there was cause for for distrust. I’m supposed to be gracious and oblivious, not angry and suspicious.

“I’m not a stranger,” he protests.

I merely shrug in Pod-like fashion. He picks up on the sarcasm in the gesture and leans back with a sigh.

“Like I said, Tyrion’s not like the rest of his family. I think he just… feels for you.”

To make a gesture like this, Tyrion Lannister either actually does have incredible empathy for me, or is savagely mocking my pain. I know that I shouldn't trust that he isn’t playing at something.

“That’s nice,” I say, not knowing what to think because, in truth, I kind of like Pod. I still want to believe this moment is a reprieve from the nastiness and not secretly part of it.

“Is your friend picking you up? In LA?”

My eyes snap up. “Why do you want to know?”

“Woah, sorry,” he says, genuinely surprised. I immediately feel guilty. “Just making conversation.”

“I’m sorry. I’m on edge,” I tell him, cringing at my own rudeness. “Really, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he says. “I mean, shit, I don’t blame you.”

“Thanks."

Pod sits up. “Wait. You’re not, like, worried for _your_ safety, are you?”

I wave a hand and avoid this question by answering the other. 

“No, Margaery isn’t picking me up.” Her name leaves a vaguely bloody taste in my mouth. “My aunt is coming to get me.”

Pod only continues to look at me with badly hidden uneasiness.

Fine. Quickly I say, “No, I’m not worried. Thanks for asking, though.” 

It seems to be just enough to get him to let it go; he nods tightly.

“I know you don’t know me,” he starts with a swing of verbal momentum, “but if you ever need help or anything, or just want to hang out, or you, you know, need an excuse to get out of family stuff… I’m around. I’m always around. I pretty much make my own schedule apart from stuff with Tyrion now and then, so… yeah. I’m always around.”

It’s so simple and thoughtful and honest that I want to cry. I don’t, but still.

It should be be Margaery here right now, telling me she’s here for me. Listening to me. Making sure I’m okay. I know it’s unfair to be upset with her without knowing the full story, but I can’t fucking help it. She’s with _him_ instead. Even if she hasn’t seen the news by now, she’s still _with him_ when I need her. 

And that’s unforgivable on its own. The worst part is that I know how this would’ve gone had this nightmare not happened— I would’ve come home from my trip and asked her about Venice Beach and Joffrey, and then she would’ve talked and talked and talked until _I_ somehow ended up feeling guilty for being upset in the first place.

And I hate it. I don’t know how to fight it, and I hate it. Best friends don’t hang out with each other’s abusive exes and then convince the other that it wasn’t a big deal. I may have never really had another best friend (or even friends outside of Marg’s friend group,) but I mean, this just _can’t_ be something they do. I’ve managed with other instances of this, but this is too far. This I cannot be convinced to be okay with. 

Margaery has always had a way with words and a way with people. When she talks, people just listen. It’s a power and a weapon and I am not immune to it just because I’ve known her for so long. It’s hard to tell if I’m ever in the right with her— it’s hard to feel like I have the right to be angry when she has the ability to spin any issue in any direction.

The thought of her face, of seeing her in LA all smiling and sun-tanned and chipper, trying to hug me or say anything at all, makes my insides burn with fury. I don’t want to see her. I don’t want to see her maybe ever again.

This can’t become about her. This can’t become about Joffrey. My parents are dead and the only person in the world leveling with me right now is Pod— Pod…

“What’s your last name?” I ask him.

If he finds this a peculiar response to his offer of friendship, he doesn’t say so.

“Payne. Podrick Payne.”

“Nice,” I say stupidly, “alliteration.”

“Yeah, like yours,” he grins.

“Like mine.” I manage a smile. It’s small but it doesn’t hurt.

And then Podrick Payne and I sit next to each other as the gate gradually crowds with more people, eating our candy in comfortable shared silence, waiting for the call to board.

 

The flight from San Francisco back to Los Angeles is only an hour and a half, but it feels like at least four. 

Pod wasn’t seated near me but we inevitably bump back into each other once we’re released from the plane and spit out into LAX.

The first thing I do once I’m off is get out of the way of the stream of people heading for the baggage claim and check my phone.

Nothing. Nothing from anyone— not even Lysa, who’s supposed to be here.

I dial her number but it only rings and rings before going to voicemail. I call once more, then give up.

That’s when Podrick sees me.

“Your aunt still picking you up?” he asks, stopping beside me and eyeing my frown. The question is innocent and almost caring. Like a friend’s.

“Yeah,” I say, but frustration is plain in my voice.

He hears it. “Well, I’m parked in one of the lots. I could give you a ride if your aunt… if she’s, you know…if you need one.”

It’s nice of him to pretend like he hasn’t deduced that my own aunt has abandoned me here.

“It’s just— my aunt, she’s a little…” I struggle, trailing off into nothing. _Forgetful. Distracted. Petty. Selfish. Crazy. Cruel._

“It’s okay,” Pod says resolutely. “I get it. Come on, I’ll take you.”

He walks away, toting his satchel and trailing his suitcase behind him, leaving me no choice but to follow. 

Once I catch up, he says, “I’m assuming you’re going to her place?”

“Yeah,” I say, half-jogging, “but you really don’t need to do this, I can easily call an Uber.”

He scoffs. “That’ll be a mess. I’m in one of the closer lots; really, it’s no big deal. Text me her address.”

He makes accepting his offer feel like the most polite thing to do. I’m perpetually anxious about courtesy, but Podrick is letting me loosen my maniacal grip over manners and pride with his easy sureness. He’s giving me permission to say yes.

“Yeah, okay then. Thank you. What’s your number?”

He reads it out to me as we navigate the crowd and I send him Aunt Lysa’s address like he asked. I save his contact under just “Pod” and feel a modicum of comfort settle over me knowing that I have someone in LA to call who isn’t Margaery or Margaery-adjacent. 

We make our way outside and take an almost-empty shuttle to its second stop where it drops us off in front a massive parking structure.

Pod’s blue Jeep is parked on the ground floor; it’s not long until we’re free from the structure and heading up Sepulveda towards the 405.

“You know your way around here,” I observe. 

I’m actually pretty impressed— this part of the city is always confusing and congested and nightmarish. It’s why asking someone to pick you up from LAX is widely regarded as a massive favor— it almost goes beyond ‘favor.’ It’s the kind of thing you generally only ask family to do, and only close family at that. It’s like asking someone to retrieve you from the deepest hell— not a casual thing to do or ask of a person.

“Uber driver,” he reminds me simply, giving all the answer necessary.

“That’s _right,_ ” I gasp. “You must be in and out of here all the time.”

He laughs at my impressed and slightly horrified wonder. I allow myself to laugh with him. 

Nothing is real, nothing matters, this is funny, and so I laugh. It doesn’t feel wrong— nothing feels like anything, really. So I laugh some more.

The look he gives me when he thinks I’m not looking is one of tentative relief.

The GPS lady tells Pod to get on the freeway, and he does.

As he drives, I ask him questions about his life and he answers. 

Turns out Podrick Payne has been quite a few places and seen quite a few things. He may talk like a surfer but has the mind of a wisened man three times his age. 

He has an outlook on life that I truly admire. He seems to only absorb the good around him and simply learn from everything else. He has a good word for every person he mentions, even those in his stories that obviously did him harm.

I wonder what it is like to be inside his head. I wish I knew how to get there.

In turn, Podrick asks me careful questions about my family.

“You have little brothers, don’t you?”

“And two older ones.”

“If you don’t mind me asking… what happens now? Are you going to live with your aunt?”

“Good question,” I laugh, but the sound is empty. “She’s technically our godmother, so I suppose Bran and Rickon will stay with her. We don’t have any family left, really, besides her. I mean, I don’t think I— I mean, I can’t, I’m only—”

“I know,” he says kindly.

I sigh. I can’t parent them. I just can’t. Not officially. I don’t think Robb could either, even if he is the oldest. But do I trust Lysa to even try?

I can’t believe I have to actually think about this. I can’t believe this is real.

“But you live with your friend, right? You won’t have to stay with her.”

Funny how he’s picked up on my distaste for Lysa without me ever having to say it.

“I don’t know,” I say quietly, the thought of Margaery burning in the back of my throat. “She… we… I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to figure it out now,” Pod says softly, and it actually makes me feel a little better, because he’s right. 

_Petyr can help me,_ it occurs to me. _I can talk to Petyr. He’ll know what to do._

“When are they coming back?” I ask suddenly. 

There was talk of the conference being concluded earlier than scheduled in light of the tragedy. Although Stark funding was only fundamental in a few of the projects being discussed, the small earthquake of my father’s death is causing enough destructive ripples to hinder progress in most everything else.

“What?”

“When is Tyrion and— everyone else coming back?”

“Oh. Well, Tyrion said he was staying a couple extra days in the city. You, know, just to fuck around. But I don’t know about… everyone else.”

“Oh, okay,” I say, biting back the unresolved anxiety. “No worries.”

Petyr and I were initially supposed to fly back early Friday morning, so the latest he’d possibly return is still less than two days. I will survive, but thinking of him makes this this so much worse. I want him here.

“I can ask for you?” Pod offers, and I feel my face get warm. He probably knows I’m wondering about Petyr.

“No,” I insist. “It’s fine, I’ll figure it out. But thanks.”

After that, it’s silent for a long while. 

I watch an old red Volkswagen driven by a stylish woman in her 60s dance with us for miles— she’ll pull ahead for a while, then fall back. We’ll change lanes to her right, then her to the left, then she’ll drift further away and back again. 

I’m actually sad when she takes the exit right before ours and I have to watch her go away from me forever. I wonder who she was; I wonder if she noticed us. I can’t believe there is a version of history in which I never noticed her; I can’t believe there is a version of history in which anything from the past 24 hours went differently.

The sun has almost set and I can tell we’re getting close to Lysa’s from the familiar scenery. The sky is orange and pink and beautiful but I feel only dread seeping in.

“I know this is really hard,” Pod says unexpectedly, “and you didn’t ask for my opinion. But— but if working for Tyrion has taught me anything, it’s how shitty a person has to be to be successful out here, in this business. Most the people at Lannisport got there with blood, sweat and tears— but like, other people’s blood and sweat and tears, you know?

“And I know you’re grieving, but— I want you to watch out for yourself. People will try to… take advantage of you, especially when you’re vulnerable. Please don’t let them.”

I stare at my feet as something grows cold in the pit of my stomach. I know precisely what Pod is saying and exactly who’s he’s referring to. He thinks Petyr is taking advantage of me and that I’m oblivious.

“I won’t. I’m not.”

_And who’s to say I’m not that same kind of person, Pod?_

“Good,” he replies contentedly despite the hint of ice in my tone, seemingly satisfied in just saying his piece. 

We approach the gate.

“Do you know the code?” Pod asks, rolling to a stop.

“Yeah,” I say, “but I’ve got it, I’m going to walk up.”

“You sure?”

“Trust me, it’s for the best.”

“Alright, I believe you. You got your bag alright?”

I slide the suitcase out from the backseat and until falls upright onto the gravel with a soft crunch, then shut both the back and passenger doors. 

“Yup, I’ve got it. Thank you, Podrick. Really,” I say, leaning slightly into the open window to let him see my sincerity. “Thank you.”

He smiles like he’s embarrassed by my gratitude. “Nah, no biggie. I’m serious, though, call me anytime, okay?”

“Thanks,” I smile back, “I will.”

I watch Podrick drive away until he turns a corner and I lose sight of him. 

Then I’m just left standing cold and alone in front of the massive iron gate of Aunt Lysa’s mega-mansion as the last traces of light seep from the sky.

 

 

Lysa is the one to open the front door, which jars me a bit right off the bat. I wasn’t expecting her face to be the first I saw; normally it would be one of her house staff.

“My dear girl.”

Her arms are around me before I’ve fully absorbed the sight of her, so it takes me a second to return the gesture. 

“Such tragedy. And so young,” she laments, but the grief in her words are uncomfortably performative. “You poor children.”

Before I can reply, she pulls away abruptly. 

“Where is Donald, is he out there?”

“Donald?”

“Yes, yes,” she insists, “I sent him for you.”

Getting a good look at her, now, is nothing less than disturbing. Her lips have been artificially plumped to the point of what looks like discomfort, with the skin stretching so tight. Her eyebrows have been micro-bladed which, despite being the wrong shade of red, honestly don’t look that bad… by themselves. 

Many of the elements of Lysa’s appearance— semi-tasteful Botox, lip fillers, micro-bladed eyebrows, hair dyed a shade brighter than her natural auburn, crazy-long eyelash extensions, a subtle boob job, unnaturally white teeth— wouldn’t be horrifying on their own. In fact, some of the elements might’ve had a chance to make her look nice, as she undoubtedly intended. 

However, the effect of all the enhancements put together is honestly a little scary. To some, maybe even downright terrifying.

She looks like what an alien would come up with if given the task to create a human using only reference images from reality TV and cartoons.

She looks at me now with her wide blue eyes, a crazed sort of energy fueling the insistence behind them.

“You sent him for me… at the airport?” I try to clarify.

“Yes, is he not with you?” She’s still grabbing either of my arms, holding me in place to peer around me.

“No, Aunt Lysa, I got a ride with someone else because I thought no one was coming.”

A hand flies to her forehead in distress. “Oh, Sansa.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know… I called you.”

“Now I have to call and tell Donald he drove all the way to Long Beach for nothing,” she moans, as if she cares what her staff actually go through. 

These theatrics are for the purpose of making me feel bad and none else but I, of course, pretend not to know this.

“I’m sorry, Aunt Lysa, truly,” I say slowly and clearly, “but my flight landed at LAX, not Long Beach.”

“Nonsense!”

I don’t really know how to respond to this. “Where are Bran and Rickon?”

“I distinctly remember something about Long Beach!”

“Maybe you’re thinking of when we came back from Seattle a few years ago,” I offer, knowing she needs a way out of responsibility for her mistake before she’ll let it go. “Remember? Mom and Dad took us up there for a trip and when we flew back we met you at LGB? Maybe that’s it.”

“Yes! Yes, that’s it, that’s what I remembered. How was I supposed to know you weren’t flying in the same? I sent my Donald to get you!”

“Thank you, Aunt Lysa. I will have to thank Donald, too,” I say sincerely as I can manage. “Where are my brothers?”

She sighs. “They were upstairs with their cousin before he had to take his rest. I made up rooms for them, they should be there now.” 

“Thank you,” I says, gently squeezing the hand that still rests on my arm before guiding it away from me. “May I go see them?” I add, as if her permission or lack thereof could stop me.

She smiles sadly. “Of course, sweet girl. I’ve made a room up for you, too. It’s the blue room you loved so much as a girl, do you remember? With the bay window?”

“Yes, I do. Thank you, Aunt Lysa. Thank you for hosting us.”

She tilts her head at me and smiles, and I can tell she thinks herself a saint. “What is family for?”

 

 

I find my brothers upstairs in one of the handful of guests rooms. Rickon is asleep curled up at the foot of a bed while Bran sits cross-legged at the head, seemingly just staring into space.

“Sansa,” he whispers in relief when I crack the door open, trying to see through the dark.

I close it softly behind me and kneel by the side of the bed. From this distance I can see a wet gleam to Bran’s eyes behind his glasses. It’s heartbreaking.

“Hey, buddy,” I greet using his favorite old term of endearment.

“Where’s Robb?” he asks in a voice much younger than fourteen. “And Arya?”

“Robb’s still in England,” I say gently, "but he’s coming home as soon as he can.” 

I’m leaving out the part about Robb’s frightening radio silence, but I think it’s safe to assume I’m right about the rest.

“Is Arya with you?”

“No,” I answer honestly but calmly, holding back the panic I’m actually beginning to feel about it. “But I only just got back in town so I haven’t heard from her yet.”

“But she’s coming? She’s gonna come here with us, right?”

“Yes, she is,” I tell him. “How has Aunt Lysa been? Do you have everything you need?”

He doesn’t answer and I feel like an idiot. Of course he doesn’t. I glance at Rickon, still asleep on top of the covers. I can’t imagine being twelve and without a mother.

“I don’t get why we can’t stay at home. I just want— Rickon and I want to go home.”

“I know,” I say. “And you might, still; I don’t know what’s going to happen. Lysa is in the best position to look after you right now, but that doesn’t mean it’ll be like this forever. You just have to— we just have to stand strong, together, okay? Like Dad would want us to.”

He nods.

“Take one thing at a time. It’s the best way. Will you try to sleep?” 

He nods again. It’s early, but he looks tired. Things won’t be better when he wakes up but sleeping is an easy way to survive eight or ten hours. 

“I have to take my own advice. I’m in the blue room down the hall. Wake me if you need me.”

“Okay.”

I stand up and throw an extra blanket over Rickon, but Bran’s hand shoots out to catch my arm before I can walk away. 

I take the hint and lean down to wrap him in a tight hug. He stays very still and very quiet, but I can tell it was what he wanted.

“We have each other,” I tell both him and myself. “Don’t forget. We still have each other.”

It’s the only thing keeping me in one piece.

 

 

My room has its own attached bath, so I take advantage by taking a shower as soon as I’ve plugged my phone into its charger and set the ringer as loud as it’ll go.

‘Taking a shower’ is a generous term— I sit in the tub under the hot spray in total darkness until my fingers go pruny. At this point, after quickly fumbling around to actually wash up, I get out and dry myself in a similar manner— sitting on the floor of the dark bathroom wrapped in fluffy bath towels. 

Something sharper than fatigue keeps me there long after I should’ve risen. Somehow… even though I’m just as alone here on the ground as I would be ten feet away, I still can’t get myself to get up and willingly get into the empty bed on the other side of this wall. 

Whenever I came down with a fever when I was little, Mom would let me lay between her and Dad in their big bed and watch cartoons until I fell asleep and was inevitably carried back to my own room in the night.

At home, Margaery sometimes crawls under the covers with me whenever I get choked with panic or sadness or fear. Her body heat used to thaw out the icy terror in my chest, her words always soothed the leftover pain. Knowing now that those words meant nothing, that she has allied with the recurring cause of that terror, hurts beyond what words can express.

Perhaps the only person alive that I would truly want to see right now is Petyr, and just knowing that he exists and _isn’t_ here makes the idea of crawling into the empty bed in the strange and silent room utterly unbearable.

Instead, without really meaning to, I drift off to sleep right there on the ground.

 

 

I wake up freezing. It makes sense, seeing how most of my bare skin has ended up pressed against the cold tile floor. All the warm steam from my shower has long since evaporated.

Oh gods. What time is it? How long was I out? My mouth is dry as the damn desert.

I slowly get to my feet, find my way to my suitcase, and put on the most comfortable clothing I can find— black full-length leggings, a soft white t-shirt, and an oversized green sweater I commandeered from Robb back in the day that I never gave back. I throw on some thick socks, too. My teeth are literally chattering from the cold.

My phone says it’s half past eleven— I’ve been asleep for almost four hours. The only activity I appear to have missed in that time are three missed calls from Margaery Tyrell. I clear the notification so I don’t have to look at it.

While I know exactly where I am and what has happened, I still feel sickeningly disoriented by it at the same time. I need water.

I head downstairs with soundless footsteps. 

Once I’ve got a glass, I’ll just bring it back up with me so I don’t have to keep coming down here. Tap water doesn’t scare me, but wandering around this house in the dead of night sure does.

The kitchen is massive— too massive, if you ask me. There’s no way she has use for half of the space down here. It’s showy and empty and wasteful— a recurring theme when it comes to Lysa.

I have to quietly open and close a few cabinets before finding one with cups inside. I choose a plain glass and fill it with the cold filtered water from the fridge. Chugging the first glass down so quickly makes me have to catch my breath before going back and filling a second.

In the stillness of the pause, I hear a voice coming from a nearby room— which room, I’m not sure, but I definitely heard my name. I can’t help myself; I move further into the kitchen to get closer to the source.

Before I can make out what’s being said, I recognize the voice as Lysa’s solely from the timbre.

“Yes… but that one’s always been a little feral, though, hasn’t she? Shouldn’t we wait? She might just come back when she’s ready, like… I don’t know, like an outdoor cat.”

_Arya?_

“Fine, fine. You’re right. I’ll talk to the detective tomorrow. Will you be here, too, then?”

Hearing ‘detective’ both terrifies and relieves me. A professional should be able to find her if it comes to that, which I hope to the gods it doesn’t.

“—Are you sure the police wouldn’t do a better job? Alright— alright! Yes, I know. You’ve always liked doing things yourself, haven’t you? What did you use to say? Ah, yes— only trust those on your payroll. I remember.”

There’s a pause, and then she giggles. Something about it makes me bristle.

“Yes, I know— you’re a very skilled man. You don’t need to explain that me… I’ve known you longer than anyone, haven’t I? I know quite well.”

Holy mother of mercy, Lysa is talking to _Petyr._ That’s the only explanation. I inch closer to the far edge of the kitchen, closer to the hallway that I remember ending in her late husband’s office. She must be in there.

“She got here fine. Looking rather beat down, but fine.”

I can’t help but feel a little offended. It’s not like I can defend myself, so I just press my lips together and listen harder.

“Well the poor thing came from LAX!” she exclaims like she can’t believe it. “And didn’t even tell me!”

_Like all hells I didn’t._

“But she got here just fine. A little gaunt, but that’s obviously another issue entirely… Well no, I don’t know, but I sent my Donald to get her! I sent for her needlessly, but it’s no matter now.” 

She sighs. “You know what grief does to a fragile mind. The child needs all the help she can get.”

It’s getting so ridiculous that I can’t even be upset anymore. I have no problem letting her think I’m fragile.

“Oh, Petyr,” she breathes. “You’ve already done so much for my family… are you sure? Shall I tell them, then? Fine, fine. You’ve been too good to us… too good to me. It seems fate keeps pushing us back together at every turn, doesn’t it?”

An inappropriate amount of anger burns through me like a violent hot flash.

“Well, you are welcome here any time you like. Your help is more than appreciated. We have plenty of room. And I know I can say that… that Cat would be grateful. I know I am.”

At the mention of my mother, I have to take a step back to steady myself. Lysa doesn’t know the first thing about my mother, not really, not anymore, not for a long time; how dare she presume to speak for her, even for this?

“So am I, Petyr. As always, I trust you. I’ll see you soon. Yes, yes. Until then… good night.”

I return quickly back to the center of the kitchen in case she decides to come out after hanging up.

She does, scuffling out of the office and down the hall in what sound like slippers.

I need give the impression that I just got here, so I open and close a cupboard clumsily, clatter my glass down on the marble counter, then hit it against the fridge’s water sensor as loudly as I can make seem natural. I watch it fill, keeping my back to the rest of the kitchen.

The glass is halfway full when Lysa speaks.

“Can’t sleep?”

I startle as though I had no idea she was there, sloshing a bit of water onto my sweater. 

“Oh! Hi. Sorry. Yeah— well I mean no, I can’t. Not for long, anyway.”

“That’s quite understandable, dear. You know, I have something that might help, if you’d like.”

“Oh… thank you, Aunt Lysa, but I couldn’t possibly bother—”

Lysa pulls out a small orange and white bottle from the pocket of her silk robe and pours two little dark blue pills into the palm of her hand. 

“No bother at all. Here,” she says, holding them out for me. “Start with only one. You shouldn’t need the second.”

I smile, take them, and put them in my leggings’ tiny pocket, hoping she won’t insist I take them on the spot.

“Thank you.”

She tilts her head, scanning me.

“When’s the last time you saw a doctor, dearie?”

 _Oh no._ “Oh, I don’t know. Like a general doctor? Probably last spring… why do you ask?”

“Because your health is important to me, dear,” she says. “And I feel the need to take care of you, to take care of my blood.”

I take a nervous sip of water. 

“I’m going to take the liberty of scheduling a couple of appointments for you, hm? Just the basics, a GP, a dietician, maybe a consultation with a psychiatrist? No need to be nervous, he’s a good friend— the best in LA.”

Fighting her will do me no good. “Sure, Aunt Lysa.”

She beams and clasps her hands together. “Good. I will do the same for your brothers.”

“And my sister?” I interject. I watch her face closely.

“Well her, too,” she says smoothly, “of course.”

“But have you… heard from her? Has anyone?”

“You don’t need to worry yourself about that, dear. The adults are—”

“I am an adult. She’s my sister and I’m worried. Have you heard from her?” I keep the aggressive _‘or NOT?’_ out of my mouth with some difficulty.

Lysa sighs. “You’re right, Sansa. I’m sorry. You are… a woman now.”

I wait for her to answer me.

“I have not heard from your sister, no. But we’re working hard with the city’s finest professionals to locate her.”

“We?”

“Your Uncle Petyr and I, dear,” she clarifies. I barely trap the snort that almost comes out of me. “He arranged for me to collect the boys, he filled me in on your situation in San Francisco, he’s hired professionals to bring your sister home to us…”

She trails off, eyes focusing somewhere far past me. Her fingers fiddle thoughtlessly with the locket of her necklace. A corner of her mouth quirks up.

“He’s the best kind of man, your uncle is. Selfless. I’m so… lucky to have him.”

…Alright, then. So this is going to be an issue. This is going to be a real fucking issue.

“What about Robb?” I ask.

She rolls her eyes and huffs to herself. “How am I supposed to know that?”

I am much less inclined to take Lysa’s shit than I was about fifteen seconds ago.

“Fine.” I slam back the water in my glass and start to leave.

She gapes, horrified by my sudden turn in disposition. “Sansa, stop! Wait.”

I do. Barely.

“I’m— I don’t know where Robb is. I’m sorry. But Petyr might know something— you can ask him yourself tomorrow, if you like.”

“Tomorrow?”

“He’s coming to help me with things. I have a lot to figure out with you kids, you know.”

She looks weary— like, actually exhausted. For the first time I consider how much weight this is actually hanging around her neck. As much as I like to scowl and tell myself she’s fake and evil, she’s still here, taking us on, isn’t she?

“…Like what?”

“I’ll tell you what— we’ll talk about it with you tomorrow. You can be part of the discussion, Miss Adult.”

She smiles. I manage one in return. This will be easier if I can keep my cool.

“Thanks. I’d like that,” I tell her.

It’s going to be weird, but I’d still rather be there for it than not. 

I want a say in what happens to my family, I want to keep Lysa in check, but I also I just really want to see what in the seven hells I’m dealing with when it comes to her and Petyr.

That’s when my phone vibrates against my hip, tucked into my leggings. I ignore it and accept the butterfly-light hug that Lysa sends me back to bed with.

“Good night,” Lysa calls after me, voice shriller than ever in the dead silence of the mansion.

“G’night, Aunt Lysa,” I whisper back, then jog up the stairs and back to my bedroom.

 

I set my empty water glass onto the nightstand, then reach under the waistband of my leggings to retrieve my phone. The glass is warm to the touch from being pressed against me that whole time.

 **P. Baelish:** _I’ll be at the Arryn estate tomorrow in the late morning. Play nice with your aunt, we need her._

So clinical. 

The fact that he has contacted me means it’s safe to correspond, now; that’s what we said in the hotel room. 

I stare at the screen and the tiny blinking cursor. What do I want to say?

_I have so many questions._

_When it comes to you why are there always only ever more questions?_

_Please come rescue me._

_What do you intend to do with Lysa?_

_Are you going to ‘play nice’ with her, too?_

_Will you still want me after all of this?_

_Will you still want me when I’m just a puddle of tears?_

_Is it really going to be okay?_

_Where are you?_

_I wish you were not so far._

_I wish you were here with me._

I climb onto the bed and quickly type and send the main three words coursing through me.

 **S. Stark:** _I miss you_

Unsaid, of course: _I need you._

Pathetic.

I drop onto my side and curl into a ball, miserable. Maybe I’m clingy. If clinginess gets me his attention, then so be it. The more I think about him the more panicked I get that he’s not near.

This is horrible.

Petyr needs the favor and trust of Lysa in order to do what needs to be done for me and my family.

Lysa will be the most malleable when she gets to bat her eyes and play house with Petyr, I see that now— that is, she needs to live in a world in which she has no reason to believe we would ever be together.

She’s been with him before; I’m sure she thinks she can do it again. I’m sure she already thinks that’s what’s happening now.

This situation is so messed up. How am I supposed to deal with this? How am I supposed to just watch? 

If I want my family to survive, I have to find a way to deal with it. I have to find a way to deal because Petyr is our best chance. 

The issue is that the thought of distancing myself from him when he’s _right in front of me_ makes me feel like I might self-shred into tiny pieces. 

**P. Baelish:** _You and me, sweetling— soon. I promise. You’ve done so well._

I press my face deep into the pillow under my head until I can’t breathe and my lungs ache and I have to come up for air. 

I want to hear that in his voice. I want feel the words in my ear with his arms around me. He is the only person on the planet who could make me feel safe or held, now. Still, he is so far away, and in more ways than one. 

I know he cares for me— he must. None of this makes sense if he doesn’t. The problem is that he has so many faces that I could convince myself at any time which is the real one— is the face that sent me away with cold eyes and a straight face this morning the real Petyr? No, I don’t think so. But I can’t know.

 _‘You’ve done so well.’_

No, I’ve barely survived.

Still, the words are warm. Someone sees what I am doing. Someone sees. Someone knows. 

It’s Petyr— Petyr sees, Petyr knows.

Unbidden, the memory of broad warm hands on my face, neck, waist… it floods me. 

I curl tighter into a ball and shut my eyes. Nope.

_‘You’ve done so well, sweetling.’_

The fucked-up part isn’t that imagining the words in a sexual context is making me react this pathetically— because I’m not doing that. The fucked-up part is that it has nothing to do with sex talk at all.

The intimacy in the words, the safety, the relief, the trust, the praise and approval of my... my _person_ — that is what has me pressing my thighs together, what has me wet and wanting so badly.

It’s worsened, of course, by knowing he can’t be here. Even if he was, he couldn't touch or acknowledge me.

My emotions have been everywhere today and that’s fine, but _this_... this is honestly just ridiculous. 

It is and I am disgusting and bad and twisted.

What am I supposed to do with this? Where do I put it? Is this not wildly inappropriate after everything that has happened? Or is it _because_ of everything that's happened? Because I crave what safety I have left, in whatever form it presents itself? Is that sick? What is the appropriate way to feel? Not this way, I would guess.

I stare through the dark at the painting on the other side of the room. I think it’s a boat.

I crave his assurance. I ache for his voice. I want his hands— I remember so perfectly the taste and texture of his fingertips on my tongue. I remember the look in his eyes when I wrapped my lips around them; it was all the reassurance I've ever needed.

Or maybe the painting is a lighthouse.

 _You could text and ask permission,_ a small voice whispers from the shadows of my mind.

I flip over and stare daggers into the other wall.

I can’t do that. I can barely admit to myself that… that I… 

I just can’t, not today. What would he think of me?

I can’t cheat and _not_ ask, either, though. Maybe it’s stupid and pointless but if it ever comes down to it and Petyr asks, I truly want to be his perfect girl with a perfect record. I won’t betray that.

In the end I am so idiotic and masochistic that I just lay in the dark with my hands under my pillow thinking loudly to myself for at least fifteen minutes of nothingness. 

Finally I can’t take it anymore and pop both the sleeping pills that Lysa gave me earlier in the kitchen.

I planned on throwing them away or at least researching them before taking them, but it’s too late now. If Lysa can handle them, so can I.

They must be fast-acting, because I start to feel my eyelids droop just a couple minutes later. 

When I sit up quickly to grab my phone from the nightstand, I almost fall off the bed with my forward momentum. I catch myself at the last second and slowly lower myself back down to the mattress, breathing deeply to make sure I’m still getting air. I can’t actually feel the air-lung exchange happening, but my chest is rising and falling so I think I’m okay.

I guess I succeeded in getting my phone, because it’s in my hand. I feel very warm, in a good way. I’m warm on the inside. I find Petyr in my phone to say something before I inevitably pass out.

**S. Stark:** _I am lucky to be your girl_

My heart is so big and loud that it demanded I tell him.

 **S. Stark:** _Thank you for being so good to me_

 _Where ever did you come from?_ he asked me once. I understand now. It’s wonderful.

 **S. Stark:** _and I’ve stayed good for you_

 **S. Stark:** _I really really wish you were here,_

 **S. Stark:** _i thought that you_

I’m not sure what the rest of that thought was supposed to be? It's okay, though.

 **S. Stark:** _i can never tell what you are really thinking_

 **S. Stark:** _let me into your brain?_

 **S. Stark:** _you already live inside mine. you have a house there! a nice one of course_

 **S. Stark:** _it is absurd that you are not here_

 **S. Stark:** _i could use a hug. but from you_

 **S. Stark:** _i just badly want you and_

I was going to type ‘you and your face and your hands and your voice and your eyes and…’ but then decide it’s too much and that I’m tired. I can tell him later.

One dark flickering thought remains. Now is as good a time as any to ask; I’m not scared.

 **S. Stark:** _did you love lysa once?_

 **S. Stark:** _it’s ok if you did_

 **S. Stark:** _you don’t have to tell me_

I realize all these texts might seem silly later but I’m reading them now and they’re fine. My emotional oversharing is not anything new to Petyr. I didn’t say anything bad, just silly.

I hope he thinks the nice things I said to him are nice. I meant them.

I tuck my phone under my pillow and close my eyes. It feels amazing. It feels like I’m falling through space, and then it feels like soft nothing. 

I vaguely register my pillow vibrating under my head, but it’s too late now to open my eyes back up. I couldn’t do it if I tried. So all I can do is make a feeble note to look into it later before I’m sucked all the way into the fuzzy black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> star wars broke me
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> (hello again)  
> (i apologize for the twelve year delay)


	14. organized chaos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re smarter than that.”
> 
> “Maybe not.”
> 
> I drop my head back and sigh at the ceiling. Sansa is a remarkable, intelligent, graceful human being— but in this moment, I’m reminded that she is still very much a teenage girl.

14  
Petyr

She is precious. That’s the best word.

I sit on the edge of her bed, realizing there’s no way I could bear to wake her despite that being what I came up here to do. She looks too peaceful wherever she is; to pull her away from that seems cruel. Heavens know consciousness will only strip her of all shelter from the shit storm up here. Even I can’t give her what her dreams can, nor help her keep it.

I wish I could see what she is seeing now. I wish I knew what’s causing her eyes to dart around under the delicate skin of her eyelids like that, what all her little shrugs and tiny movements mean.

She twists her arm out from under the covers with a sigh, presenting the bare inside of her forearm to the chill of the room. To me.

It’s so quiet in here. Just unhurried breath.

I take the knuckles of two fingers across the pale skin of her arm softly, curiously. Just to test the warmth. Just a way to touch her without having to steal her from her peace.

She makes a little noise under her breath that makes me smile.

I have serious issue with what Lysa did, but… Sansa may have needed a good sleep.

Lysa had only shrugged at me when I asked her what it was she gave to her.

“Well… as long as she’s not on any other medications, right?” I’d asked casually and rationally, playing the curious but uninvested observer. Really I wanted to take her by the shoulders and shake furiously until she told me what in the seven hells she gave my girl.

I had hoped the question would scare her enough about potential interactions (which I know she didn’t bother to consider) into actually telling me the name of the goddamn drug, but no. She only laughed and told me ‘the girl’ merely needed sleep, assuring me that Dr. Coleman would never possibly prescribe her anything dangerous.

From what I know of Lysa and what other hints I could gather, it seemed most likely some kind of benzodiazepine, just given to Sansa in a disproportionate dose. When Lysa left to greet the detective in the foyer, I took the opportunity to check the purse she left leaning against the side of the desk. There were two bottles inside— one was prescription-strength ibuprofen, but the smaller one was labeled ‘flunitrazepam.’

I was horrified. I guessed right with the class of drug, but I hadn’t expected that. Did she realize what this was? Does Lysa take these, herself? Who knowingly gives their teenage niece— and possibly themselves— the drug most notorious for date rape? For sleep? For any reason? How much did she even give her?

I considered taking the bottle with me; I’d rather not have an unstable woman like Lysa handing out literal roofies to kids like candy around here. I bet she probably already gives them to Robin to get him to sleep and who knows what other drugs— but that would mean she would notice them gone, so I put them back.

Lysa couldn’t wake Sansa, so Detective Smith went ahead and spoke to her younger brothers without her. Lysa and I loosely supervised the discussion, but it largely wasn’t necessary. They did quite well on their own, to their credit.

Smith was good with them. He answered all of their difficult and often tragic questions with grace and honesty while giving them all the comfort he could, given his position and purpose here. Neither of the boys had any immediately pertinent information as to Arya’s whereabouts, but they did have a wealth of information to contribute about her patterns and habits, all of which Smith took meticulous notes on, in addition to voice recording. Interestingly, the smaller one, Rickon, brought up Gendry first— the boy who called Sansa for help that night in the Mockingbird. Both he and Bran had a lot of interesting things to say about the boyfriend that may yet prove useful in finding Arya.

Once the interview ran its course, Lysa took the boys and Robin out to lunch as a treat and also as a way to allow Smith and I to talk openly in the house. The Stark children looked a great deal more comforted and just in a better mood overall after the two or so hours of talking; I suspect it felt good to be _doing_ something to help rather than wasting away in this cavern of a mansion in sad silence. They didn’t seem thrilled to spend time with their cousin, however, based off the looks they gave each other on their way out. I smiled when I saw them in spite of myself.

Smith suggested trying to wake Sansa again after ten or fifteen minutes of further planning, but I told him to go home instead. I chalked it up to wanting him to sift through and determine the important information from what the boys gave us; I said I wanted to have an idea of what we still needed before officially interviewing Sansa. He seemed confused by the sudden decision to break our hard pace on the matter, but didn’t protest.

After watching him drive off the property and the automated gate close behind him, I finally felt able to take a deep breath. I hadn’t realized how choked I’d felt before.

The choked feeling is gone, now.

Something about Sansa’s clear, even breathing has a calming effect on mine. Watching the rhythm of her chest rising and falling lets mine slow.

I guess I’m also glad she’s breathing at all, given the horrific parenting skills Lysa has exhibited in the mere hours she’s been here. No wonder her son always seems to be on the edge of death. Nobody uses Rohpynol for sleep anymore; it’s dangerous and archaic. It’s closer to an anesthetic than anything. She’d given her ‘a couple pills,’ Lysa had said. The issue there is that one dose of Rohpynol is ten times stronger than the same of Valium, and it sounds like Sansa may have taken more than one.

That, of course, might explain the texts and her failure to pick up the phone when I called her immediately upon seeing them. She likely got high for half a second before being knocked out cold. I don’t know what I thought— maybe that she’d gotten into Lysa’s booze stash, or that she was simply overwhelmed with grief and that the confessional texts were the result. It was obvious that something was off, but I didn’t know what. She wasn’t answering any of my calls but I had to choke down my anxiety about it down until I could fly back and, upon arriving here this morning, talk my way into figuring out what happened.

 _I am lucky to be your girl,_ she’d said. _Thank you for being so good to me._

It’s uncomfortable to face the fact that I care this much about another human, but I truly think I’d set the whole world on fire if it meant keeping her warm.

 _I can never tell what you’re thinking,_ she’d said. _Let me into your brain? You already live inside mine._

Yeah, I’d torch the whole thing. All of it.

 _I just want you,_ she’d said.

I don’t deserve her, but there she is. Mine.

I can’t help it, I shift and settle my hand softly over her wrist, the brushing of knuckles no longer enough. She reacts with a little inhale but doesn’t wake.

 _Were you in love with Lysa once?_ she asked, followed quickly by, _It’s okay if you were._

I smile. I hope she’s not embarrassed when she wakes. I wonder if she’ll even remember.

It’s adorable and laughable that the thought even crossed her mind. Is that the place her thoughts went when stripped to the very core by drugs and the fog of sleep? Is she truly worried about me… loving Lysa? Does she really think that’s possible when she exists? Does she understand even an ounce of what I— no, she really doesn’t, does she? She says she can never tell what I’m thinking. It clearly bothers her, causes her distress and insecurity. But what about showing? I would do anything for her, and I am. Is that not proof enough? Does she not see?

Her hand moves under mine. I watch as it slowly and loosely takes my wrist like my hand has taken hers.

“Hi,” she whispers, eyes opening and blinking against the small amount of light coming from the shaded window.

“Hey.”

“What time is it?”

“Almost two,” I answer softly.

“What? Two in the afternoon?”

“Yes.”

She sits up.

“Where’s Bran and Rickon? Are they—”

“They’re out to lunch with Lysa and Robin, they just left. They spoke with a detective earlier about Arya but we let you sleep.” _Actually, we couldn’t wake you. It was mildly terrifying, even if you were still breathing._ “They’re okay. They did a good job.”

She visibly relaxes.

“I slept… fourteen hours.”

“You took some pills that Lysa gave you,” I fill in. It’s hard to keep the disapproving tone out of my voice. Sansa has to be smarter if we’re going to get through this intact and I’m angry that she wasn’t, even though I know I should be going easy on her.

“Yeah,” she says slowly, like she remembers. “That wasn’t a good idea.”

“No,” I agree.

She concentrates, unconsciously pulling my wrist closer to her while piecing her thoughts together.

“I took a shower, then I think I fell asleep. Then I needed some water… went downstairs… talked to her— no, I heard her talking. And _then_ I talked to her. She gave me the pills and I came up. Then… I couldn’t sleep. So I took them.”

“How many?”

“Two, I think.”

“Don’t do that again.”

“I won’t.”

“You know what they were?”

She shakes her head, looking at her lap.

I sigh and move down the edge of the bed so that I can look at her closely.

“I never loved Lysa. At any point.”

She looks surprised, then confused, then, remembering, appalled.

“…Oh no. No, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I should never have asked something like that. It’s not my… It’s just that I, I…”

“It’s just that you were drugged. I know. Rohpynol. Flunitrazepam— she gave you roofies.”

“She did _what?_ ”

“It _is_ used for severe cases of insomnia… but not really anymore, not in modern medicine. Still. I don’t like you accepting date rape drugs from anyone. Even your aunt.” I hear the harshness to my own words and feel guilty, but continue all the same. “I don’t like it. Don’t take anything she gives you again.” 

She nods, looking like she might cry.

“I know you didn’t know,” I say in a low voice. I’m not sure if she’s overwhelmed in general or upset that I’m upset or something else entirely. The instinct to soothe kicks in. “Nothing bad happened. You just have to think about these things.”

She continues nodding, gaze locked fiercely onto the collar of my shirt instead of my face.

“If you need help with anything like that, ask _me_ — okay?” I implore, fitting my hand along the side of her face.

“Okay,” she agrees, meeting my eyes. I lean into her, tilting her face to close the final two-inch gap between us before softly fitting my mouth to hers. _I’m not mad,_ I say with a stroke of my thumb on her cheek before turning my face and following up with another, shorter kiss. “And thank you for your messages,” I murmur as I pull away. “Even if you don’t remember them.”

“I do,” she says, smiling shyly. “Kind of. I think.” She looks at me with a nervous energy.

“What is it?” 

Her voice is very small. “What happens now?”

“Be more specific.”

“My brothers.”

“They’ll stay here with Lysa for the time being, but I’ve contacted the boarding school that your father and his brothers attended as boys in case we want another option.”

Her interest is piqued. “Black Castle?” I nod. At first the idea seems a relief to her, but her face falls suddenly. “But that’s so far away.”

“It’s just an option. It would allow the guardianship situation to remain without them having to live with Lysa most the year. I don’t think they’re fond of it here, especially not with their cousin… and it might be good for them to heal away from the source of the wound,” I add softly. “Together.”

Her eyes fall away from mine. I know she’s thinking about what is best for them, their best chances at surviving the pain of loss and the threat of further danger inherent in remaining in Los Angeles.

“It’s an extremely reputable establishment,” I say. “And it’s in Stark tradition to attend.”

I watch her expression and try to decipher all the little changes in it as she considers this.

“That’s actually a really good idea,” she says finally. “I’m not saying I approve yet, but… you’re not wrong. I don’t want Lysa in full control of them. And this way they’d be surrounded…. surrounded by his legacy—our history, at least. And by others, not just Robin. They should be around other people.”

I’m glad she seems warm to the concept— it’s the best I have brewing right now for dealing with the Starklings. I’m not sure there are any other options beyond letting them stay here and be homeschooled and slowly poisoned to death or driven to insanity by Lysa.

“Arya?” she asks.

“Working on it,” I say. “She isn’t classified as missing yet, so I’ve hired my own detective to look into it.” 

“I know. I overhead Lysa talking to you on the phone.”

I raise my eyebrows, amused. “Oh?”

Sansa ignores me. “What do you know?”

I sigh. “We think she may have left. By her own volition. There’s quite a bit of evidence for it.”

Sansa closes her eyes. She knows I’m right. 

“She might’ve suspected foul play when she heard the news,” I try to explain, “and hid. She might’ve had a fight or flight response, or she might have decided to run away from the reality, or… I don’t know. But it looks like she ran away, and of her own accord.” 

She sniffs. “That sounds about right.”

“Are you worried?”

“Not as much now. Not in the same way.” There’s a long pause, then she laughs sharply. Mirthlessly. I’m taken aback by the sound; that empty coldness doesn’t feel right coming from Sansa. “Of course she fucking ran away. She looked for every excuse to do it when we were little. Now she’s finally got a great one.”

“We’ll keep looking,” I assure her. She shakes her head, but not at me.

“Why bother? If she wants to be a big girl— to abandon the rest of us, to be free, to go sulk in her own sadness, to have the luxury of dealing with this on her own special terms— she can go ahead. I’m sure it’s easier that way. Good on her.” The sarcasm is cutting. “Gods, she’s always acted like she was special enough to cut corners! I always had to do the un-fun stuff when we were kids while she got to run and leave me to play in the yard. She just charmed everyone with her ‘fun and boyish attitude,’ even when it meant she was skirting her actual duties— the ones the rest of us never got to skirt. Not even my parents could ever truly scold her for it. Her spirit was too… contagious. She just ran free from it every time. No consequences. Ever.”

She balls her fists into the sheets and looks up at me, eyes burning.

“And the worst part is that she hates _me,_ ” she whispers, “she hates me and she’s left me. She’s abandoned me. Everyone has.”

“Sansa—”

“—I can’t stay here,” he voice breaks. “I can’t go home to Winterfell. I can’t go home to Margaery. I can’t even—”

“Woah, woah,” I interrupt. “What you mean? Talk to me, sweetling, what do you mean?”

Sansa throws herself against me, hard enough that I have to prop an arm behind me on the bed to keep both of us upright. I wind my free arm around her. Her face is buried in the crook of my neck, so I can press my cheek to the top of her head. She smells different, but nice— like citrus shampoo.

“You can tell me,” I urge softly. “I want to help.”

“I can’t bear to set foot in Winterfell. It’s a tomb now. No one is left. And I can’t go back to the apartment, not now. I know it sounds stupid, but Margaery… I just can’t see her. I don’t trust her anymore. I can’t look at her, much less live with her.”

“It’s not stupid,” I tell her. I don’t trust Margaery Tyrell either, to be honest. That is, less than the usual amount I distrust others as a baseline. Never did. Her ambition is rather predictable, but it still makes her relationship with Sansa increasingly thin ice. 

I have a feeling this has to do with Joffrey, a topic that is clearly a sore spot. The little asshole will be kicked off his pedestal soon enough, with or without my help. I’ll make sure of it, one way or another. I could say more or ask her about it, but decide to let her choose how to continue without my influence.

Sansa takes a breath. “But I can’t stay here. I know my brothers need me, but… but Lysa…”

I hum an acknowledgment. Lysa is unstable, conniving, forceful, insensitive, strangely and dangerously smart, inconsistent, cruel, and lacking in the right kind of empathy to parent anyone.

But what Sansa actually says is, “…But Lysa is obsessed with you.”

I laugh. “I know.”

She presses her face harder into my neck so that her words are muffled. “I can’t watch it.”

“Oh, sweetling,” I whisper. “It’s just pretend.”

She doesn’t answer.

“It’s for you, remember?”

I feel her swallow against my chest. It stirs something in me.

“I have to take care of my girl,” I say quietly into her hair, wondering if it’ll help her. Soothe her. Hoping she’s not about to slap me for playing daddy when her own father has just been murdered. It feels right to comfort her this way, but I don’t want to cross a line. I don’t want her to think I’m taking advantage of her vulnerability. _But you are,_ an unwanted voice hisses at me. I shove it away easily— I’m helping her, at the end of the day. “And I’ll do it however I can. Even if I have to play pretend.”

She doesn’t make a move nor gives a response, so I pull away, holding her face level with mine to try to get a read on her. I dip my head closer in question, triggering the slip of a sad little noise from the back of her throat. It’s desperate.

I follow instinct and lurch forward to capture the noise with a kiss. Her mouth parts for me easily, letting me take away the taste of worry and desperation and replace it with the comfort of my lips, my tongue, my hands sliding to take her face and waist. I’m being as soft with her as I know how, and still my hands seem to move on their own, working her open to me further. She yields so beautifully. Simultaneously a rush of affection and a guttural heat floods me and obscures my previous clarity of thought. It may be despicable, but Sansa is so sweet and soft and willing. _This is what she needed, then._

I force myself to pull back, open my eyes. It’s difficult. “Are you okay, sweetling?”

She nods, pink in the cheeks. “You know… she calls you my ‘Uncle Petyr.’”

I laugh. 

“Do I have to call you that?” she asks, scrunching her face but smiling, too. “I never used to.”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“Why?”

“Because we need her money and her cooperation,” I say plainly, “and her, her money, and her cooperation want you to see me as an uncle.”

“Oh. Yeah.” She frowns. “I guess that would help with…” Blushes. “…You know. It would help her not… suspect anything. Makes sense.”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t know that it would help. It would help to play by her rules, sure. It would help her be satisfied with how we address each other at first, sure. But…”

I stop and look at her for a long moment. “Well— here, go ahead and call me Uncle, Sansa,” I suggest, as though I need her help in testing a theory. She goes bright red. “Go on,” I urge.

She shakes her head, embarrassed. I skim across the surface of her cheek with light knuckles. 

“Come on, sweetling. At least tell _Uncle Petyr_ why you can’t say it.” Her eyes catch mine with both pleading misery and bratty obstinance. I know she gets the point; I decide to let her off the hook and stop teasing. “You can call me Uncle, sweetling, but I’ll know what you really mean when you say it.” 

“… So you want me to?”

“Mm,” I lean forward and kiss her jaw. “It can be our little secret.” Then her delicate neck. “Our code.” The arch of her collarbone.

“Okay,” she whispers. I take her by the waist gently; her hands come to rest tentatively on my arms. “Our code.”

I lift my face back up to hers. “This is all so horrible, sweetling, but you’ve done so well. You have.”

This has a stronger effect than anticipated. Sansa curls her hands into my shirt and looks at me, eyes hurting and searching and utterly heartbreaking. They’re hopeful, too. Waiting.

“You know that, don’t you?”

Sansa barely nods her head, fighting tears and hanging dearly onto every word.

I kiss her, unable to watch her like this anymore. I use the the pressure of my lips to push away the doubt. The way she responds to my touch is both endlessly endearing and maddeningly erotic. She is just so perfect and sweet and ripe and she is mine told take, to taste, to bite. I trace my fingers on the bare skin at her waist, teasing her with the lightest of touch. She breathes a whine and, desperate, lifts herself the small distance into my lap; her knees split easily around my hips into a straddle. 

Her mouth grows somehow both softer and harder on mine and I start to lose sense of all circumstance. I’m aware somewhere in my consciousness of where we are right now and why, but it starts sliding away from me. It falls away. It can’t be that important then, can it? Only Sansa matters. Only the indecent, delicious ache of her feels real. I find myself gripping down on her to feel more of it, rewarding me with the sweetest little moan. The noise drives me insane with the want of her, but it also puts a flag in the sand that I use as a marker to force myself to stop at.

“Wait,” I pull away and manage to say, “Sansa, is this o—?”

“Yes,” she breathes, and tries to kiss me again. This doesn’t seem right. 

I stop her. “I don’t believe you. Everything is… what is going on?”

“Just— _please._ ” Her voice is so clear and pretty and needy that it loosens the ties of my resolve and sends my head spiraling in directions I’ve been forcefully compartmentalizing.

“Please what, sweetling?” I ask softly. I’m not trying to draw anything out of her; I just truly want to understand. 

She shifts in my lap and I have to bite down. She’s not being shy— the better description, strangely, would be desperate. She looks close to unhinged sitting here in my lap, begging with her eyes like only I can make it all stop.

“I just… just… Use me. Please.” She swallows. “…However you want. I don’t care, just please make it hurt. I want to feel you. Please.”

The words distort themselves into strange shapes and send an overwhelming torrent of images and impulses through my mind in the second it takes me to truly process them. 

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea, sweet,” I hear myself say.

“I know you want to.”

I jerk back reflexively. “Excuse me?”

“I’ve seen your eyes when you fuck me,” she says in just above a whisper, eyes flitting softly around my face— anywhere but my eyes. My heart lurches and wedges into my throat. I’m equally horrified and aroused. “You like using me. You like hurting me… in a certain way. I know you do.”

Alright, maybe more on the horrified side. How do I explain that? But how can I deny it? It’s not that simple. “No. No, I would… Daddy would never actually hurt you. He just…”

“He just really really wants to?”

It’s like a slap in the face. “Sansa, I _care_ about you.”

“I know. That’s why I’m asking.”

I search her face. I know that Sansa is looking for a distraction from her pain. I know she must be craving some sense of complete belonging amidst all of this. I know she must want to feel protected in such a terrifying time and I know she wants the praise and assurance of the only adult left in her world who she feels is qualified to give it to her. I know this.

But at the same time, who is to say I can’t be that person she seeks? Who is to say that allowing her devotion is wrong? That she shouldn’t belong to me? That it’s wrong to take what she wants to give?

Sansa sees me thinking and lays herself flat against me, curling against my chest. She’s like a sad, petulant child and it’s not helping. 

“No,” I choke out before I can stop this unexpected surge of better judgement. “Let’s get you up.”

I stand up, sending her rocking back sharply onto her pillows. She blinks up at me— surprised, then betrayed. I’m surprised, too. I hold out my hand to pull her up. She looks at it like it’s something foreign and offensive, mouth opening and closing like she wants to object. 

For a moment I think she’s going to refuse me entirely— but she doesn’t. She finally takes it after a healthy silence, scowling, and I lift her.

I look around the room. “Alright. Did you unpack your suitcase?”

A mumble.

“What’s that?”

Louder. “I’m not staying.”

“Well, you are until the funeral,” I remind her. There’s no way I’d make her stay here past the point of necessity, but she has to stay until the funeral for logistical and, frankly, safety reasons. She knows this— we talked about it.

But Sansa stays quiet, eyes glazed towards the window, mouth set. 

I frown. “Sansa.”

Her attention flits back to me with something like annoyance. “What?”

“You don’t mean you’re leaving for somewhere else _today,_ do you?”

No answer.

“Do you?” I demand, about to turn her around. 

She jerks and evades me, crossing the room to crouch down by her suitcase. “Maybe.”

“Sansa, you know you can’t do that.”

“Arya did,” she answers flatly, rifling through the bag.

This is absurd. “Alright. Where, then? Where are you going if not to Winterfell or Margaery?”

She ducks into the bathroom with an armful of supplies from her bag, letting the door close behind her. I hear the rustle of clothes. Through the door, “I don’t know, I’ll figure it out.”

“You’re smarter than that.”

“Maybe not.”

I drop my head back and sigh at the ceiling. Sansa is a remarkable, intelligent, graceful human being— but in this moment, I’m reminded that she is still very much a teenage girl. I hear the water turn on and off, then the sound of brushing teeth.

“You are,” I call over the noise, crossing my arms. “I can tell you that again and again, but you already know you are. Should I remind you of all the reasons you’re here in the first place? Of why we decided this was the best course of action?”

More brushing.

“Have you changed your mind, then? Has something happened to change it?” I push. “Is that it?”

The water starts again, and splashing. I stare across the room in silence and prickle.

What am I saying? What am I even trying to get out of her? I know she knows why she can’t go. This isn’t about information or plans or courses of action to her. She’s upset— and it probably doesn’t help that I just rejected her advance.

I lean against the door and close my eyes.

“Sansa, you know you can’t go,” I say in a softer voice. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry this has fallen on your shoulders. But I’m glad it has— I’m glad on behalf of your brothers, because if it were anyone else but you, I don’t know if they’d be okay. You can’t leave them now— not yet, at least. Not until we know what’s happening with Robb. You know that.”

Silence from the other side of the door— too perfect of a silence. I open it. 

Sansa is there, crying silently on the bathroom floor with her arms wrapped around her knees. One of her hands grips a hairbrush with white knuckles. My heart lurches; I slide down beside her.

I pull her to me. She inhales, and it stutters quietly with the threat of the dam breaking. “I just—” she hiccups, “wanted to pretend. Wanted to pretend for a second.”

“That’s okay,” I hush. “It’s okay.” 

I pry the hairbrush from her death grip, and coax her to her feet, and walks us back towards the bed. Turning her shoulders away from me, I gently gather a section of her hair and begin to brush.

The crying calms. I keep brushing. It stops.

Her hair isn’t very tangled, but it’s still quite long and fine and takes a few minutes to get through. I take more time than I need to and work overcautiously around the handful of knots, then brush the entire thing a few more times to finish.

A memory tugs at me, and I follow its thread.

I set the brush aside and work her hair through my fingers, sectioning a portion near her crown. It’s like silk in my fingers— soft and lovely, but problematic if it makes this harder the way I suspect it will. I begin the braid with slow, careful fingers, making sure to leave out little pieces on either side. I’m pretty sure this is how it started. My hands seem to remember the motions better than my mind does the steps, so I let them guide me.

The task demands so much of my focus and attention that I don’t notice the minutes slip by. My mind circles around the rhythmic weaving and nothing else; it provides a certain simple clarity that soothes me. This must be the feeling people talk about when they describe meditation. The idea of ‘letting go of all else’ in any circumstance never appealed to me, but… this is nice.

I finish the main portion and start to work the trail of small, loose pieces into their own twists. Some of them get tucked and looped into the larger braid in strategic places, while some combine with others to wrap over and around. It’s an entirely decorative step, which means I have a harder time with it. The placement is up to the judgment of the eye, and my eye is not used to judging such things. I adjust a couple of spots, then force myself to drop my hands and leave it be.

Her hand comes up to gently pat my work. “I didn’t know you could braid.” 

Her voice is quiet but steady— the tears are all gone.

I watch with a little smile as she leans over to catch a glimpse of herself in the desk mirror across the room.

“Petyr, it’s beautiful.”

“Well,” I smile, “At least you make it so.” 

She turns to face me, and she is really smiling. The life in her face has returned, and it hits me like a freight train how genuinely happy this little thing has made her— even if just for a moment.

“I can’t believe you can braid.”

“I can’t,” I laugh.

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t, really. I just remembered this one— your mother taught it to me,” I say softly. “When we were young.”

I hate that I have to watch her expression falter.

“My mother?”

I nod, tucking a stray wisp of hair behind her ear.

She reaches back again to lightly touch the braid, then is silent for a long moment.

I clearly remember the same braid on Cat— much more complex, even though she always did it herself. I never understood how she could do it without really looking. She grew out of braids altogether by the time she met Ned— giving this forgotten piece of her back to Sansa feels right.

“Thank you,” she whispers. “I love it.”

 _As I love you._ The thought comes unbidden, but it comes.

“Of course, sweetling. You wear it well.”

She smiles again, and the world is upright once more.

A sharp metal _clang_ sounds from out front, causing both of us sit up straighter and look towards the window. The noise of gravel crunching under heavy tires grows closer. Lysa is back.

“Are you ready?” I ask in a low voice. She nods once.

Sansa turns, considers me, then throws her arms around my neck in a crushing hug. I smile at first, but it quickly forgets itself as I snake my arms around her by the waist and hold her against me as tightly as physics will allow. Her heart beats right up against my mine.

A non-goodbye goodbye. Neither of us truly knows what will happen. I can pretend and I can guess, but this is all organized chaos— and chaos has a way of fucking everything and everyone. For once, I wish I could ask it not to fucking do that. I wish I could barter with fate for Sansa.

“Are you?” she whispers. “Ready?”

“Oh, yes,” I say. “Don’t you worry about me, sweetling.” 

“I do.”

I pull back, squinting at her. “You do?”

“Yes,” she says, almost laughing at me. “I do.”

Warm lips meet mine, soft and far too short.

The world's sweetest smile. “Now go.”

 

——————————————————

“…Petyr.”

“Hm?”

“I told our sweet Sansa that she could be part of our conversation,” Lysa tells me after dinner that night while we’re alone in the parlor.

I don’t lift my eyes from the email I’m writing. “Our conversation?”

The fire in the fireplace pops. The warm light is the only source in the room apart from a single lamp in the corner and the screen of my laptop. From the corner of my eye, I see Lysa wave a hand.

“Mm. About the investigations. About Arya, the boys… the many, many siblings. Everything.”

“Are you sure that’s wise?”

“She’s an adult. I think she deserves to be part of it… Well, you know. Part of some of it.”

I peer up at her, frowning. “How much is some?”

Lysa laughs and takes a sip of tea from a mug the size of her face. “Petyr, please. She’s family.”

I shrug. “Yes, of course. Her sentimentality just might make some decisions difficult.”

“Maybe not. She’s surprised me so far… And they’re my decisions in the end, anyway, aren’t they? Let her listen.”

“Alright,” I sigh, and close my computer. “Let’s bring her in, then.”

Lysa returns a few minutes later with Sansa on her heels.

“Take a seat, darling,” she instructs before settling, herself, in the seat closest to me. She’d been sitting in the chair next to the fire a moment ago, but Sansa is the one to end up in it now, across from us.

I fold my hands in my lap and let Lysa do the talking to her heart’s content. 

She explains in a spectacularly long-winded manner the general situation— the impending investigation of the explosion that killed Ned and Cat, the private investigation into Arya, the attempts to contact Robb, and the plan for what life will look like for the kids moving forward.

“Are you okay, dear? You’re awfully quiet,” Lysa accuses. It would’ve been hard for Sansa to interject even if she’d wanted to, with the pacing of Lysa’s explanation.

“Just absorbing,” Sansa assures. “Will… will the funeral be at Winterfell?”

“Yes,” I answer before Lysa can. “It will be a small group. Family and some close associates only.”

Her eyes flash to me, and I can read their question. 

I clarify. “Close friends of your parents— none one you don’t already know.”

“Oh, gods no, no strangers!” Lysa exclaims, laughing. It feels wrong. She’s essentially laughing at the potentiality of another attack— an idea that isn’t too far-fetched to count as laughable just yet. 

_‘Ha! No strangers here, not when Starks are being killed and kidnapped right and left!’ ___

__Sansa smiles uncomfortably. “And, um… what happens to the boys afterwards?”_ _

__“After what, dear?”_ _

__“After the funeral. Will Bran and Rickon start school again?”_ _

__“Lysa,” I interrupt, leaning in to talk to her alone. “Do you remember Mr. Jeor Mormont? From your father’s dinner parties?”_ _

__“Mormont?” she puzzles. “I think so.”_ _

__“He runs a school north of here, a boarding school for boys.The same one Ned’s family attended.”_ _

__She processes this. “Yes, I think they golfed together. I remember he seemed the respectable sort. Then again, most of Father’s friends were.”_ _

__“Well, it’s a respected institution. I could show you the website later, if you like. I think it might be a good option to consider.” I glance at Sansa. “Do you know the place I’m talking about, Sansa?”_ _

__“Black Castle, right?”_ _

__“Yes. What do you think?”_ _

__Lysa stands abruptly, interrupting. “I think they’ll need more time than that to return to school. And to boarding school? I don’t know. They’ve been through a lot, Petyr. They need nurturing.”_ _

__I nod. “I hear you, I’m only exploring options. I’ll show you the website, anyway. Just so you can see.”_ _

__Arms crossed, she paces closer to the fire. “Sansa, dear. Your brothers have lost family, like you. Would it not be safe to say they’d fare better with their loving aunt? Their cousin? In a real home?”_ _

__To her credit, Sansa does not for a second look to me for help even as she clearly struggles to form a response. “I… know they are so grateful for you now, Aunt Lysa, as am I. I could ask them about it privately to get a sense of where they’re at, where they’d like to be.”_ _

__Lysa huffs. “They’re children. They’d _like_ to be on the moon.”_ _

__“We all heard so many stories about the school, growing up. It might mean a lot to them to be able attend the place their father did,” Sansa insists. “Now that he’s… gone.”_ _

__“Yes, it’s very sad,” Lysa says. "I’m not trying to trap them here, you know. I want what’s best for them, too.”_ _

__“Luckily we don’t have to decide now,” I offer. If we push this further, Lysa will snap. We need her to _bend._ She has to believe she is making the decision for her own reasons. “There are other things that demand our attention.” _ _

__Lysa nods. “Like the reading of the will?”_ _

__“It’ll be here, the Monday after the funeral,” I supply._ _

__“Good. And the gala?”_ _

__“Sorry,” Sansa interjects. “The what?”_ _

__“The fundraising gala.” Lysa crosses back to me, perching herself on the plush armrest of my chair. “The one your mother was putting together before the accident.”_ _

__This is trickier. The event only came onto my radar a couple of hours ago and I haven’t had the chance to broach the subject with Sansa yet._ _

__Her blue eyes slide between Lysa and I. “Alright.”_ _

__“She’d been working on it all year, do you not remember?”_ _

__Sansa prickles. “Yes, I remember. It was a benefit for Waterways.”_ _

__“For what?”_ _

__I can sense Sansa’s patience thinning. Her words are slow and overly-measured. “For Waterways L.A.— her charity. The women’s charity.”_ _

__“Of course.” Lysa sweeps her hair over a shoulder and leans into me with a low voice. “Petyr, perhaps you should explain. You’re far better with words than I am.”_ _

__I am, but maybe not good enough for this. I can’t tell Sansa the real reason I need her to attend in front of her aunt; I’ll have to trust that she can sense I’m not giving the full story._ _

__“The event is still happening this Saturday and we need to you to go.” Best to rip off the bandaid._ _

__“Saturday is the funeral,” she states with little reaction. Her eyes flash to Lysa with annoyance as she shifts around on my chair._ _

__“Yes. The gala is later in the day. We know it’s a lot to ask.”_ _

__“Wha… why?”_ _

__“If you stand in for your mother, the community will come forth to support you and her cause. It would honor her good work and it would show—”_ _

__“It would show those Lannisters that they haven’t won,” Lysa finishes._ _

__Sansa’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh?”_ _

__I confirm it with a look. Lysa put that one together herself— she’s a smarter woman than she seems. Unfortunately._ _

__“You are the face of the Starks right now,” I say. “Reporters everywhere want to know how the family is handling this. Other families in the circle will want to know where you stand— if you still stand at all. And, yes, the Lannisters will be waiting to see if you plan to… be difficult or not.”_ _

__“I see,” Sansa says weakly. She slumps in her chair, gazing defeatedly into the flames._ _

__I wish she would look up at me, read my intentions on my face. What I have to tell her might make this worth it to her— the gala presents the opportunity to trigger a sequence of events that could destroy her parents’ murderers. I’ve been setting up rows of dominoes for close to a decade, and I can feel in my bones that Sansa will be the one to knock down the first. But I need her to do it._ _

__“I know you are grieving, dear, but adults must do these things when it comes to the wellbeing of their families,” Lysa tells her. “Your uncle and I will accompany you, of course— you won’t be alone.”_ _

__Sansa doesn’t react whatsoever._ _

__“You’ll have a date, as well,” I add. She lifts her head, frowning. “It’s a formal event. We’ll find someone we trust.”_ _

___Just trust me,_ I plead with my eyes. I try to beam the thought directly into her head. _Just trust me, say yes, I’ll explain more later.__ _

__She’s quiet for a long moment, then flicks her gaze onto Lysa._ _

__“Who?”_ _

__I feel my shoulders relax._ _

__“Don’t worry about that,” Lysa coos excitedly. “There are plenty of options. You just worry about yourself for now, your uncle and I will figure something out with the right family.”_ _

__Sansa frowns again, and I don’t blame her. As far as I’m concerned, the reason she needs a date is for physical and emotional support, more than anything. For propriety, yes, but also for an excuse to leave a conversation, a person to stand next to, a reason for others to think twice about what they say to her. She’ll be fragile and overwhelmed and she just needs someone next to her— I would be that person if I could, but I can’t. Someday, but not yet. The way Lysa is talking about it, though, makes it seem like we’re arranging a marriage._ _

__Her arm comes to rest on my shoulder. “It’s PR, dear,” she summarizes. “Something your uncle knows quite a bit about. You can trust him.”_ _

__Sansa nods, eyes on the ground._ _

__“Ms. Arryn?”_ _

__Lysa whips around to where one of her staff stands in the doorway, hands clasped anxiously in front of her._ _

__“What is it?” she snaps._ _

__“I’m sorry, ma’am. It’s your son, ma’am, he… he won’t stop screaming for—”_ _

__“Don’t touch him! I’m coming,” Lysa huffs, barreling out of the room without wasting a word on Sansa or I._ _

__Lysa exits, complaining as she leaves through the adjoining dining room. Soon the only sound left in the parlor is the crackle from the fire._ _

__“Come here,” I say quietly when I’m certain we won’t be heard. She switches seats obediently. “I’ll make this quick. Do you remember when I asked you about the Lannisters? About taking the company?”_ _

__Sansa shakes her head like she’s too exhausted to keep up. “Petyr, I…”_ _

__“Yes or no.”_ _

__“Yes.”_ _

__“A lot has happened. Do you still want that? Do you still want to help me?”_ _

__She blinks at me, and for a second I think she somehow didn’t hear it. Then I realize her eyes had turned hard and cold._ _

__“Yes.” It’s one word, but it’s more certain than anything I’ve ever heard her say._ _

__I nod once. “Good. It starts at the gala.”_ _

__Her brow furrows. “I don’t see—”_ _

__I’ve spent too long dodging the details. We’re really doing this._ _

__“I have been loosening their financial foundations for years. I’ve made bad investments with their money, written trap clauses into contracts, collected evidence of foul play, made friends with the unions and competitors, and gathered unused blackmail— all for nearly ten years. Lannisport is a Jenga tower with all its insides missing.”_ _

__I grab her hand._ _

__“I just need one final push to ensure the whole thing goes down. That’s you, Sansa.”_ _

__“Okay,” she swallows, nods. “What do I need to do?”_ _

__I brace myself, because this could be the hardest thing I could possibly ask her. “You have to befriend them. You have to get close the Lannisters, make them trust you.”_ _

___Just enough to do you one small favor._ _ _

__“What do they need to trust me for?”_ _

__“You want to finish the film your father was making when the gas leak happened. In memory of him,” I paint the picture._ _

__“But I need their help?” she guesses._ _

__“Yes, and they'd love to help the daughter of their friends do such a sweet thing. It would be a charming story on the news.”_ _

__“So they’d give me… money?”_ _

__“Partnership, yes. I write up the contract between the companies… I release everything I’ve been holding on to… they’re forced to break contract… we sue for Lannisport, or for enough that they have to sell.”_ _

__I see it puzzling through her mind. She’s nodding slowly._ _

__“What do you think? Do you think you can get them to give a Stark some innocent charity?"_ _

__“Done.” She tilts her head. “I’m assuming at least a couple of them will be at the gala?”_ _

__I nod. “First step in establishing the new dynamic. In public.”_ _

__She smirks, fueled by the idea of the challenge. “I think I might have fun.”_ _

__This is a new side to Sansa I haven’t seen— a playfully dangerous, vindictive side. It’s extraordinary. Something comes over me, as reckless as it is, and I pull her into a hard kiss. After a second of understandable hesitation, she melts into me and I can’t find it in my heart to let go. She’s perfect._ _

__She pulls back for both of us._ _

__“Uncle _Petyr!_ ” she admonishes with faux scandal, batting her eyelashes._ _

__I laugh. “Don’t test me, little girl.”_ _

__“I don’t know, sounds like fun.”_ _

__I catch her by the chin. “You think that now.”_ _

__She tosses her head back in laughter, and I'm smiling so wide, so suddenly it hurts— the electricity of potential is buzzing in the air, the most beautiful girl in the world is smiling again, and one day I will have her all to my own. One day very soon._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you are all hanging in there <3


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